


60 for 60

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: sherlock60, Dogs, Ears, F/F, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Gender or Sex Swap, Hansom Cabs, M/M, Music, Poetry, Romance, Skeletons, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 82
Words: 16,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6540835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>60-word ficlets (plus poems) inspired by the 60 Sherlock Holmes stories in the ACD canon. Originally written for the LJ <a href="http://sherlock60.livejournal.com/">Sherlock 60</a> community. Also included works of a longer length inspired by comm discussion. </p><p>81. Ficlet: Meta Letter. Dear Readers of <i>The Strand</i><br/>82. His Last Bow. (60 + Puente)</p><p>And that's the end of Round 5!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Scarlet, Part I (60 + cinquain)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Snooping isn't Sleuthing

* * *

**Poetry Form:** Cinquain

Loyal  
Obedient  
Comes when called. Stays when bid.  
Watson and his bull pup. Both man’s  
Best friend.

 

Follow  
Like a sleuth-hound  
Spring up like a stag-hound.  
‘Tra-la-lah’ in a cab like a  
Lark-hound!

 

Untie  
the scarlet thread  
Loop it ‘round a finger  
A reminder to say ‘Thank you,  
Stamford.’

 


	2. A Study in Scarlet, Part II (60 + soldier's englyn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** The G in GPS Stands for God  
>  **Canon Story:** A Study in Scarlet, Part II  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** There’s faith and then there’s cartography.  
>  **Author’s Note:** Reportedly, when ACD was told that he put the Rio Grande very far from where it actually flows, he replied, “These little things happen.”

“Where is that mighty majestic river? Where the legendary Rio Grande? It was said to the right of the Sierra Blanco, but we have passed peak after peak and I see nothing.”

“Where is your faith?”

“But on the map—. Shouldn’t it be somewhere—?”

“Maps? Oh, these little things happen. On to Zion! We shall see it there!”

* * *

**Poetry Form:** Soldier's Englyn

'Holmes writ large' cry outraged lips

'Do what you will' the sleuths quips

Words that launched a thousand 'ships


	3. The Cardboard Box (60 + Diamante)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Hans Sloane Could Lend Him a ... Hand  
>  **Canon Story:** The Cardboard Box  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** Two monographs is just the beginning

“Holmes! Where are you?” I stopped. “Oh, are those—?”  
  
“As I said, no part of the body varies so much. I endeavour, as always, to be thorough in my research.”  
  
“Your collection is extensive,” I said.  
  
“Thus, the use of the lumber room. Extensive, yes, exhaustive, lamentably, no,” he replied as he eyed my pinna with no little interest.

* * *

**Poetry Form:** Diamante

 

Antimacassar

Beautifully-embroidered, practically-placed

Covering, shielding, protecting

Woman’s work; man’s vanity

Shining, glistening, gleaming

Beautifully-scented, generously-applied

Macassar

 

Ferret

Domesticated, business-like

Hunting, chasing, catching

Pest remover; Noonday thief

Dancing, slinking, stealing

Wild, sneak-y

Weasel

 

 


	4. Fic: As a Medical Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by discussion of the canon story "The Cardboard Box" and includes references to and quotes from that story. The quotes and much of the information about ears is from [A Chapter on Ears](http://solispress.com/A%20Chapter%20on%20Ears_web.pdf), published in the same volume of _The Strand Magazine_ as "The Cardboard Box" (1893).
> 
> Holmes has an ear fetish.

“Ears?”

“As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a rule quite distinctive and differs from all other ones.”

“You’ve made a study of them.”

“Naturally. In last year’s _Anthropological Journal_ you will find two short monographs from my pen upon the subject.”

That might have been the end of the matter, but for a singular occurrence later that afternoon.

I was in my armchair, placidly reading a medical journal by the fire when I felt a pair of hawk-like eyes on me.

Holmes was at his desk. And though it was a contortionist’s feat for him to have me in his sights, he did, and there was no mistaking the object of his gaze.

My ear.

My left ear, to be precise.

My curiosity was piqued. I cleared my throat. “Do you have a copy of your monographs? The ones on,” I waved my hand toward the part of my body that held my companion’s fascination. “As a medical man, I’d think I’d find them illuminating.”

“Certainly,” he said. His expression relaxed, but whether the change was borne of the knowledge that I had observed, but not been alarmed, by his interest or relief at having a task to divert himself, I do not know. He spent some time locating the works among his untidy piles of papers.  

“Here. Please, if you require clarification on any aspect of my theories or conclusions, do not hesitate to ask. I would be delighted to discuss the subject.”

Delighted. Well, there was a word that Holmes rarely used, save in relation to sensational crime of past, present, and future.

I set my pipe aside and delved into the manuscripts.

* * *

 

“Holmes, what do you think of my concha?”

“Of medium size. You are no Mozart.”

I snorted and resumed my reading.

“My helix?”

“Not abridged.”

“My anti-helix?”

“Well formed. And in line with the tragus.”

“Thank goodness.” According to the monograph, seventy-five percent of criminals were known to have abnormal developments in that area.

“In fact, my dear Watson, I find your ears to be well proportioned. They also display, as a pair, perfect symmetry, which is, of course, the hallmark of pure beauty in the natural world.”

I looked up. His eyes were bright, as bright as if he’d just chanced upon a locked room murder. I felt a bit uneasy and shifted my line of questioning.

“Your study, does it include specimens like those received by Miss Cushing?”

“It does,” he said quietly and looked away. “I don’t supposed you’d like to view them.”

“As a medical man, I think they would be quite interesting.”

“Capital!” he cried and strode from the room, beckoning me to follow him.

“The lumber room?” I asked.

“Until recently, it was the second larder. These are the most illustrative examples.”

“Oh my!”

More than a dozen jars sat on two shelves, and each jar held a human ear floating in preservative.

Though I had seen plenty of dead bodies in my time, I had never seen such a singular assemblage of body parts isolated from their original sources.

I recoiled at the sight.

Holmes quickly left the room. “Of course, the most efficient method of cataloguing is through the recorded image,” he said in a flat voice. He dropped a large notebook on the desk and bid me open it. Page after page was photographs.

All ears. All labelled.

Some of the photographs were of famous personages, Charles Dickens, John Stuart Mill, Queen Victoria; some were of the most infamous villains of our day, a few of whom Holmes had played a role in bringing to justice.

When I looked up, I saw Holmes staring at the side of my head.

“Holmes, I will speak as a medical man and a solider, that is to say, frankly: do you have plan to murder me for my ears? To add them to your collection?” If he did, I knew my fate was sealed as there was no arm of the law that could discover the truth, so well versed was he in the ways of the criminal classes and the police.

His face bore a look of abject horror. “I wish only to study them.” He bowed his head and spoke softly. “A close, intimate, detailed study of the changes in them over time, ideally, over decades, with my own as comparison.”

My brow furrowed, and then his import became clear.

“Holmes.”

He looked up.

I smiled. “You may study them as often and for as long as you wish.”

He beamed. Then he waltzed about the room, singing in a booming voice,

> “…those exterior twin appendages…those hanging ornaments…those handsome volutes to the human capital… those ingenious labyrinthine inlets…”

I laughed and clapped my hands together. Then he stopped and bowed to me.

“Watson, you would do me a great honour if you would lend me your indispensable side-intelligencers for two purposes.”

“Which are?”

“One, to, at a date in the very near future, sit for a session of photographs. I wish to add to your most illustrious examples to my archive.” He strode to the desk and tapped the formidable book with his hand.

I readily consented.

“And two, to listen to this,” he took up his violin and bow and pulled the latter across the strings of the former, and from the sweet sounds that filled the room, I knew I was in for a treat. “A bit of Mendelssohn, perhaps?”

“I’m all…well, you know.”

The words ‘ears’ and ‘yours’ crossed my mind, and I knew—from his display earlier that day—that he was reading my thoughts as easily as he read the dailies every morning.  

He smiled and began to play.


	5. Fic: Dipping Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genderswapped AU. Romance. Lestrade and Watson are dipping girls. They work at a seaside town, helping women and girls take advantage of the curative effects of being dipped in the ocean. 
> 
> Inspired by a discussion on the canon story "The Cardboard Box." Includes references to other canon stories: "The Veiled Lodger" and "The Lion's Mane."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bathing-machines were horse-drawn or human-drawn enclosed carriages brought to the water's edge so that female bathers could change into bathing clothes in privacy.

“Good-bye, Miss Holmes.”

“Good-bye, Miss Lestrade. I apologise for never addressing you by your preferred moniker.”

 “Quite all right. At least one Holmes managed it.”

A cry rose above the sound of the crashing surf. “ _Lestrade, you embroidered beast! I now have definitive proof that your ignorance exceeds that of a dog!_ ”

Lestrade smiled at the pair of heads bobbing in the water. “Your sister’s charm is…”

“…an acquired taste, to be sure. I am, however, exceedingly grateful that Miss Watson and you have acquired said taste in the few short weeks that Sherlock and I have been ‘taking the waters’ here.”

Lestrade shook her head. “I’ve never seen Watson so animated. In our years with the circus, she might have said a dozen words a day.” She pointed to the two figures, who were now frolicking with a bull pup on the deserted beach. “I do believe that she loves that girl.”

Mycroft hummed. “In Sherlock’s case, this prescribed ‘sea cure’ may have exchanged a host of ailments for one, that is, impending lack of boon companion, and not just Sherlock’s case, Miss Lestrade, I must confess…”

A large wave came up and swallowed the inclined plank that led from the sand to the bathing-machine. When not in use, the large wooden cart was completely enclosed, but at the moment, the back wall had been removed and refashioned into a narrow platform that jutted off the back. The two women were seated on this platform, on either side of the plank, legs dangling in the water.

“You know, I feel quite dainty being called ‘Miss Lestrade.’ It sits much better than ‘Wilhelmina the Painted Freak.’”

Mycroft frowned. “I also apologise for my sharp tongue at our initial meeting. Miss Watson and you have afforded my sister and I much more than swimming instruction and ‘dipping’ assistance. You, in particular, have provided a valuable reminder that one should never judge a book by its cover.”

“When the cover looks like this,” Lestrade uncrossed her arms and gestured to the tattoos that decorated her skin from neck to wrists, “it’s understandable. Most people say worse.”

“I am not ‘most people,’” Mycroft replied haughtily. “Neither is Sherlock,” she added.

“I couldn’t agree more, but I might bid a similar apology of you. If I had kept my first opinion of you—when I saw you dragging your sister by tethered rope through the street, the both of you trailed by a sultan’s caravan of trunks—then I would actually be the ignorant beast that your sister is so fond of calling me, and I would’ve missed out on something special. This has been a glorious month.”

Mycroft blushed, but kept her eyes fixed on the water. She plucked at the hem of her bathing dress. “We made quite the spectacle that first day, didn’t we? Sherlock was reluctant, to say the least, to follow our family physician’s recommendation of a prolonged sea visit to ease our complaints, her hysteria, my melancholy.”  

Lestrade grunted. “Watson and I have been dipping women and girls in ‘the healing brine’ for a few summers now. Sherlock is not hysterical. She is, as John said when we first met, extraordinary. You both are.” She leaned over and covered Mycroft’s hand with her own and squeezed it. “And I believe I’ve seen you smile once or twice, Mycroft Holmes. Maybe even laugh.”

Mycroft kicked her legs in the waves. “The venerable Doctor Mortimer may wish to discuss the particulars of your course of treatment.”

Lestrade laughed. “If he does, he’ll have to deal with Watson; she did the doctoring for the circus—animal and human—in addition to hauling and heaving.”

“Strenuous labour, no doubt, for you both. You are _femme formidables_.”

“If that’s French for ‘thick as oaks,’ then you are correct. And to think that neither of you could swim when you first arrived. Look at her now!” She gestured to Sherlock, who was moving through the water with considerable speed.

“The change in Sherlock is remarkable. I am not someone given to hyperbole, Miss Lestrade, but I say that you and Miss Watson may have very well saved her life.”

“She may have saved ours. I still can’t believe that it was a sea creature that killed that poor man. His death could’ve easily been blamed on us. We are outsiders here and curious-looking ones at that.”

“Sherlock has a knack for solving puzzles and, on select subjects, an encyclopaedic knowledge. I was impressed that the local authorities listened to her explanations. They are not nearly so obliging where we live. Perhaps if she and I were to make our way to London…”

“Oh, look! They’ve fashioned a boat for the pup! If that dog doesn’t sleep under Watson’s chin tonight, well, then I am not Willie the Painted Freak.” Lestrade looked at Mycroft. “Did Watson tell her or did she deduce it?”

“Sherlock appeared with the canine early this morning. That is all I know.”

“Watson had a dog, but, as, I told you times were tough in the circus. The animals suffered as much as we did. One day, the lion ate Watson’s dog in a fit of desperation. Another, more sinister, accident occurred a few nights later involving the circus owner’s wife. Watson and I deserted before dawn.”

Mycroft frowned. “You are far too accustomed to violence and danger, Miss Lestrade.”

“When you live as we do, it is a hazard. But ol’ Bessie here,” she slapped the side of the bathing-machine, “is much safer and more comfortable than our circus diggings.”

“And like you, this carriage is not all it seems. The exterior is commonplace, but the interior is quite accommodating, inviting, even.”

“Watson and I have been working on it since the day we bought it.” She studied the horizon. “Well, the tide’s turning. One farewell dip?”

Mycroft shook her head. “A farewell swim.” She surveyed the barren beach. “We have had this site to ourselves for the most part.”

Lestrade hummed. “We bring the folks that we like here.”

“Well then, in light of our privacy, I shall bathe as our forefathers did!” announced Mycroft. She quickly divested herself of her bathing dress and hopped into the water.

Lestrade whistled, and then followed her.

* * *

 

“Oh, oh! Miss Lestrade!”

“I’ve got you. That’s enough. It’s getting cold.” She lifted Mycroft in her arms and waded back to the bathing-machine.

Their lips were but a breath’s distance apart when Mycroft said, “I have applied put my not-inconsiderable mental faculties to the problem and can see no manner in which our trajectories may overlap again save for a repeat visit to these halcyon shores at a later date.”

Lestrade deposited her on the platform. “Until then, I shall see you in my dreams.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded.

“But I wouldn’t be so gloomy,” continued Lestrade. “’There are more things in heaven and earth, Mycroft Holmes, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Like painted ladies. And bathing-machines. And bull-pup sailors.”

Mycroft held her gaze and said, “The cover, the tale, both lovely.” Then she glanced over Lestrade’s shoulder and observed, “The tide has indeed turned.”

Lestrade hummed and turned her head. “Dry clothes, and then we have the unenviable task of separating those two.”

They both sighed, then shouted.

“SHERLOCK!”

“WATSON!”   


	6. The Beryl Coronet (60 + curtal sonnet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** He’s (back) in the Army now, a-blowin’ Reveille…  
>  **Canon Story:** The Beryl Coronet  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Warning:** Crack  
>  **Content Notes:** Matthews the dentist is a creation of [SCfrankles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles), title from a song by the Andrews Sisters (1941).  
>  **Summary:** …he’s the boogie woogie bugle boy of 221B!

“Toot!”  
  
“You have been to see Matthews, I perceive. The most unscrupulous of his ilk!”  
  
“Toot, toot!”  
  
“And he’s given you a dose of laudanum sufficient to remove the tusks of a pachyderm, much less that troublesome molar of yours.”  
  
“Hey, Sherly! Remember the beryl cornet?”  
  
“I can’t say that I do. Give me that pipe!”  
  
“It went, ‘Toot, toot!’”

* * *

**Poetry Form:** Curtal Sonnet

**Title:** Mary's Sonnet

How blind are men to woman’s petty truth!  
To be all things, to meet all needs, but mine,  
.A life-long sentence to be carried out.  
How blind, the banker, scorned beau, Boswell, sleuth!  
Alone, a coinless girl will learn to shine  
As moon, not sun, reflecting light about.  
  
A cousin’s tonic? Uncle’s proxy bride?  
A maid unpaid? A stricken, sicken’d nurse?  
Portend my story’s doom, but tell me how  
A fleeting stint as whore at villain’s side  
Is hardly any worse!


	7. Silver Blaze (60 + elfje)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Watson's Pockets  
>  **Canon Story:** Silver Blaze  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Author’s Note:** “ _As a man of the world, Colonel, you know that men do not carry other people's bills about in their pockets._ ”

“Doctor! Man at the kennel says to give you this. Mister Holmes’ bill for what happened to Pompey.”

I took the paper, then reached into my pocket, retrieving others.

_Doctor Watson,_

_Would you kindly ask Mister Holmes to settle the additional locksmith charges immediately…_

**FALSE WESSEX CUP TIP NOT AMUSING STOP FIVE POUNDS OWED STOP [REDACTED] HOLMES! FULL STOP**

**LESTRADE**

* * *

**Poetry Form:** Elfje x 3 

mutton  
curried stewed  
a sinister dish  
in sheep’s clothing hidden  
wolf!  
  
curry  
spicy rich  
conceals many sins  
girl’s cooking, yesterday’s meat  
greed!  
  
danger!  
cooked stewed  
don’t put a  
gift sheep in the  
mouth!

 


	8. Fic: Bull Pup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Bull Pup  
>  **Rating:** Gen (no slash)  
>  **Content Notes:** POV Watson; non-violent dog death  
>  **Summary:** Watson is a dog man.  
>  **Author's Note** : Based on the Sherlock 60 Cabs and Cabbies discussion; original posted on the LJ fan_flashworks comm for the prompt: Identity

Much to my amusement, I received a letter yesterday from one of my more imaginative readers, informing me that my descriptions of my friend Sherlock Holmes, his habits, eccentricities, moods, and attitudes, had so suggested the feline mentality to her that she had, in fact, named the new kitten in her household, ‘Sherlock Holmes.’

Sherlock Holmes may be a cat man (more precisely, a cat _and_ a man), but John Watson is, and forever will be, a dog man.

I could be nothing else. Watsons have had canine companions at their heels for generations, and these beasts feature prominently in many of the yarns that have made their way into our family lore; humorous anecdotes, poignant tales of sacrifice, epic stories of heroism, all passed down over pipes and in front of fires since Watsons first began drying their feet and smoking on cold winter nights.

So when I returned to London after being injured in Afghanistan, one of my first endeavours was to obtain a bit of canine companionship, which ended up taking the form of a bit of a grey bull pup. I mentioned the dog to Holmes at our first meeting and he raised no objections to the animal accompanying me to 221B Baker Street.

In the days that followed, I slowly settled into my new home, but my furry friend did not fare so well. Within a week, he took ill and despite days and nights of tender nursing on my part, quickly succumbed to the ailment.

With my nerves still shaken by Afghanistan, it seemed a cruel trick of Providence to compound my suffering by forcing me to stand vigil over the death of something so weak and innocent, no matter how brief our acquaintanceship. I was, in a word, heartbroken, though I kept the pain of my loss carefully guarded.

It is true that on that day in early March Holmes and I found ourselves in a hansom cab furiously headed toward Brixton Road, in route to the case that would later be known to my readers as _A Study in Scarlet_. It is also true that when we climbed into the cab, the dull weather was contributing to my depressed spirits, but the death of the pup played a far larger role in my mood than temperature or rain.

As I settled into the seat, I felt something at my back.

“It seems this cab is already occupied, Watson,” said Holmes.

I turned as Holmes slipped a gloved hand behind me and produced a bundle wrapped in a dark blanket. Unfurled, it was a creature who might have been the ghost of my former canine companion, save that this one was an even brown all over and not white with brown spots.

“I believe this is your area of expertise, Doctor,” said Holmes, shifting the bundle onto my lap. I brought the animal to my chest, ostensibly to examine it for clues as to its owner or signs of its well-being or mistreatment, but in reality I wished to be on the receiving end of the nosing and licking that creatures of his breed and blatantly amiable disposition are want to bestow on those who regard them with slightest bit of affection.

The pup and I were bosom friends by the time I pointed out to Holmes that we had reached Brixton Road.

“I suppose we should turn him over to the cabman,” I said as we disembarked.

The man in question grunted at Holmes in an alarmed fashion.

“My good sir,” said Holmes. “There is a handsome reward waiting for you should we find, upon returning from our errand, our companion,” he placed a hand on the pup, “in this carriage, warm, dry, well-fed, and content. A reward of, say, a day’s fares.”

The cabman grunted and grumbled, but then nodded.

The pup was, indeed, in the hansom when we returned, and he accompanied us to the telegraph office, then to Audley Court, then back to Baker Street. Along the way, Holmes paid the cabmen for their care of the dog, and at each stop, the drivers succeeded in finding articles for the dog so that by the time we reached out final destination, he had a collar, a brush, and a pair of bowls for food and water. The sums that Holmes parted with, however, were exorbitant, to the point that I pressed him on the matter when we alit for the last time.

To my inquiry, he only replied in that cryptic, yes, my dear reader, Sphinx-like manner of his,

“Investments well-spent.”

The pup became a member of our household that day, and if I never mentioned the dog in my official chronicling, well, it is because I am a superstitious man, as you’ll find most men of war are, and I did not want to court Fate’s displeasure by publicising my joy. Even more selfishly, I never wanted his original owner to recognise him and subsequently attempt to claim him.

My beloved companion died yesterday at a ripe old age, after a long, full life of bringing endless delight to me as well as the occasional smile and quip to my friend’s lips, so today I state proudly that I, John Watson, am a dog man.  
  
And Gladstone, God rest his soul, was my dog.


	9. Fic: Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Anniversary  
>  **Rating:** G  
>  **Content Notes:** Holmes/Watson (one-sided); pining!Holmes; POV Holmes  
>  **Summary:** Holmes and Watson journey back to Baker Street after a concert and dinner.  
>  **Author's Note:** For the May prompt LJ Holmes Minor prompt: a journey from A to 221(B); also based on the LJ Sherlock 60 comm Cabs and Cabbies discussion.

In the glow of the streetlamp, I study your features for the hundredth time. Tonight’s concert programme was fortuitous, full of the romantic airs you favour, lacking even a single bar of Rhineland introspection. The dinner was to your liking as well as mine. When prepared properly, a duck may, in fact, rival its distant cousin, the woodcock. The wine was excellent and plentiful, a veritable wedding at Cana’s worth.

You have enjoyed yourself, my dear Watson.

Good.

Travelling by hansom from acoustical feast to culinary feast, we passed Baker Street, and I reflected that the journey from first acquaintance to fellow lodger was not a long one, only slightly longer than the one, say, from St. James’s Hall to Simpson’s.

And the journey from residential companion to boon companion? Well, it can be measured in years. One, to be exact, counted from the day you chose to make 221B your address until this very day, such few hours that are left of it.

It is a special day for us.

Too bold. And false, judging by the lack of any signs, subtle or gross, of the day’s significance on your part, though I have been studying your face for changes in the weather since breakfast.

So more precisely, and I am ever the slave to precision, it is a special day for me. And I choose to celebrate the passing of this year by endeavouring to keep a smile on your lips for the whole of the evening.

And I have succeeded. And we are destined for Baker Street once again, side by side, in a hansom as it _clip-clops_ its way through this cesspool of idlers and loungers, as you so colourfully describe it.

You know that I prefer a hansom for its expediency. In this city, it is very often the quickest method of transport, and in my work delay is libel to be more calamitous than for most.

But we are not working now.

And now I arrive at a hidden truth, I prefer a hansom because, with the shifting and swaying of the wheels, with the skillful manoeuvring required to keep it upright, with my stature and your girth, it means that my knee brushes yours.

Often.

It is the only intimate touch of another that I allow myself, and more often than not, it is my reward for victory over villainy, and my consolation when wickedness prevails.

And so you see, my dear Watson, the journey from boon companion to, well, I’m not even prepared to name the destination, is one that I do not allow myself to contemplate. It would mean risking for nights like this.

Anniversaries.

And thus, the fare is far too costly.

And so, let us return home and alight from our shared palanquin, you still humming, still heavy on your feet, and curl into our respective beds. I cannot deduce what your dreams will be made of, my dear friend, but mine will go _clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop_.


	10. The Speckled Band (60 + double dactyl)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Canon Story:** The Speckled Band  
>  **Title:** That deadly reptile _Trouserus snakeus_.  
>  **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Warnings:** Holmes/Watson; bed-sharing of the knocking up variety; phallic puns; crack.  
>  **Summary:** The morning after the return journey from Stoke Moran.  
>  **Author’s Note:** “ _Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper_ …”

"Watson.”  
“No, Holmes. Any damsel in distress will have to suffer through whatever murderous designs are upon her until nine o’clock. Good Lord!”  
“No blows of my cane, just the nudge of my shaft, my dear fellow. Is it coming home at all?”  
“Holmes!”  
“Pity. I’ve roused your snakish temper when my aim was to spur other, equally serpentine, parts.”

* * *

**Poetry Form:** Double dacytl

Speckledy freckledy

Cold-blooded murderer

Wide opportunity

Narrow escape

 

Manslaughter carried out

Without prints, evidence

Taking my leave with no

Trace in my wake


	11. The Yellow Face (60 + sedoka)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Unframed Portrait  
>  **Canon Story:** The Yellow Face  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** Mister Beecher approves.

“… ‘Norbury’ may represent the failure of your mental faculties, Holmes, but it was also a triumph of compassion, of humanity. And perhaps,” I walked to the portrait that stood atop a pile of books, “I shall celebrate Mister Munro’s acceptance of the girl and his wife’s past by finally giving Mr. Henry Ward Beecher his proper framing and placement.”

* * *

**Poetry Form:** Sedoka 

**Author's Note:** I ship Watson/the bootlacer at the Turkish bath; in the original version of the story, Munro contemplates his wife's situation for 2 minutes before accepting his stepdaughter; in the American version, it is 10 minutes.

Your bootlaces, like  
your pipe and watch, Watson, show  
individuality. 

Indeed, the fingers  
that tied, untied me, Holmes, were  
remarkably singular.

\--

How long does it take   
for love to triumph, mercy  
prevail? I say two minutes.  
  
Inconceivable.  
To welcome with open arms?   
Eight more minutes, if you please.


	12. The Gloria Scott (60 + lanturne)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Fortune in the Leaves  
>  **Canon Story:** The Gloria Scott  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** Somewhere in West Bengal...

The man sipped, nodded. “Bold, sharp. A superior flavour, _sahib_.” He eyed the liquid in the cup. “And handsome colour.”

“Thank you. I blended it myself.

“For export?”

“No, only house use. Let’s call it ‘Holmes.’”

The man frowned. “Homes?”

“No, _Ho-l-mes_. As my father once said, ‘Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our old lovers are the worst.’”

* * *

 **Poetry form:** Lanturne (x 5)

 **Author's Note:** Today (May 22) is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's birthday

Fire-  
flies dance  
in tea leaves,  
remind me of  
you

  
  
Cup  
of sweet  
Darjeeling  
reminds me of  
you

  
  
Strife  
at home  
turns men's thoughts  
to the sea and  
tea

 

Words,  
his. Changed  
a path, course.  
"This is your line."  
Mine.

 

Thanks  
for the  
detective!  
Happy Birthday  
Doyle!


	13. The Musgrave Ritual (60)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** The Long Game is the Only One Worth Playing (subtitle: 'Fiery Welsh Temperament' Hides a Multitude of Sins, Or Maybe Just One)  
>  **Canon Story:** The Musgrave Ritual  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** 'Beyond the sea' isn't nearly as far as Holmes thinks it is.  
>  **Author's Note:** Inspired by an exchange of crack comments on the comm around Christmas about the possibility of Moriarty having a sister (also named James was the crack part).

“Well, if it isn’t the second house-maid!”  
“Hello, Professor.”  
“Don’t you have something to sweep?”  
“Brunton. Musgrave. Holmes. Predictable. Blind. D’you like _Hamlet_ , Jimmy?”  
“Everybody does.”  
“Every man thinks he’s a displaced prince. I like _Through the Looking-Glass_. I’m the only sane one in a mad dream.”   
She produced a brilliant stone.   
His jaw dropped.   
“Mummy’s Christmas gift!” she cried.


	14. The Reigate Puzzle (60 + rime couée)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Ankle-Deep  
>  **Canon Story:** The Reigate Puzzle  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** Somewhere in Lyons, two women feel Mrs. Hudson's pain.  
>  **Author's Note:** _...his room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams..._

The pair stood in the doorway.    
“ _ Mon Dieu! _ What has he done to the room?” cried the first.   
_ “Heureusement _ the mustachioed one convinced him to go home!” exclaimed the second.   
“Are those bullet holes?”    
“These tobacco stains, will they ever be washed out?”   
“Better to burn those curtains and these,” she said, attacking the paper-strewn floor with a broom, “too!” 

* * *

**Poetic Form:** rime couée

Your stubbornness approaches lunacy  
Demands my subtlest diplomacy  
You need not be so rude and adamant  
No damsels shall disturb you  
Impede, misread, or curb you  
At Colonel’s bachelor establishment


	15. The Valley of Fear, Chapters 1-3 (60 + riddle poem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: A Study in Pink  
> Canon Story: The Valley of Fear, Chapter 1-3  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Watson goes to lengths to prove his point.  
> Author's Note: ... _He was clad only in a pink dressing gown, which covered his night clothes_...

“I’m inclined to think—“    
  
A forkful of eggs stopped mid-journey to his mouth.    
  
“I should do so.” I sat opposite him, crossing my legs, tugging at the blush-coloured silk.   
  
“Touché, Watson! Yes, everything  _ did  _ hinge on the pink dressing gown. Now, please, return that to the theatrical wardrobe company from whence it came.”   
  
“Gladly.” I sneezed. “Marabou is foul.” 

* * *

**Poetic Form:** Riddle Poem

I leave  
a journey to Xanadu unfinished   
and  
a well-cooked breakfast untasted.


	16. The Valley of Fear, Chapters 4-7 (60 + acrostic poem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Romance  
>  **Canon Story:** The Valley of Fear, Chapters 4-7  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Summary:** What is romance without a bit of mystery? Or vice-versa?

“So this is the best they have to offer? One double-bedded room?”

“How ever shall we manage?”

“Mrs. Douglas was correct.”

“About what?”

“Boardinghouses. Little country inns. There is romance…”

“…there is always romance, my dear man, but she also said there was nothing secret, nothing mysterious.”

We looked at each other, frowning, then shook our heads.

“Perish the thought!”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** Acrostic poem

**Author's Note:** Inspired by the line _'Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her.'_  
  
  
Shouts unanswered  
Only my own stricken voice borne back to my own straining ears  
My face pressed to earth, my heart interred in a dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething foam  
Every torn, bedraggled branch an invective: you left him to struggle, to suffer, to fail, to fall.  
Fettered to the chasm  
Endless recriminations  
Errors of judgement  
Left alone, adrift, unpaired, unmoored  
In roaring silence  
No. I won’t  
Go.


	17. The Valley of Fear, Part II, Chapter 1-4 (60 + florette)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Violets  
> Canon Story: The Valley of Fear, part II, Chapters 1-4  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Surprise is in the eye of the beholder.

“… _ a lovely violet growing upon one of those black slag-heaps of the mines would not have seemed more surprising _ …Now, Watson.”    
“What?”   
“Would be surprising to find a violet in an odd place? We seem to have them popping up ‘round us at the most alarming rate.”   
“Excuse me, Mister Holmes, a young lady to see you, a Miss Violet—“

* * *

**Poetic Form:** florette

A violet grows upon the black slag-heap  
a-bloom a beauty ‘midst dark mountains steep  
Where greed and hate are buried fathoms deep  
And those who blood-seeds sow must also reap ‘cross sea and years.  
  
Fair eyes amused and shining soon shall weep  
For all the pretty words that fail to keep  
The wolves at bay, the hoary beasts asleep.  
Ere long, the tainted vein shall creep, and shed its tears.

 


	18. Fic: The Reigate Skeleton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson return to Surrey to visit Colonel Hayter ("The Reigate Squires"). Gen. 
> 
> For [rachelindeed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelindeed/pseuds/rachelindeed). Also for my 1_million_words bingo square: The Skeleton

“Apologies for the late hour, Hayter.”

“Not to worry, Watson. This is a bachelor establishment, remember? We keep all hours here. No diplomacy required this time, I see?” He winked.

“Definitely not,” I replied, laughing as Holmes alit from the carriage. “He was as eager to return as I was.”

“Mister Holmes!” cried Hayter. “How wonderful to see you! I was hoping scare up some murderous neighbors to occupy your mind, but I am afraid all I’ve got is a haunted skeleton.”

“It is good to see you again, Colonel,” said Holmes with an impish smile. “In return for your kind hospitality, I shall endeavor to get to the bottom of your ghoulish bones.”

The Colonel barked a laugh and pounded Holmes on the back. “See that you do, my good man. Come, you both must be hungry after your journey.”

* * *

We were, once again, in the colonel’s gun-room after dinner.

“Do you remember Major Palgrave, Watson?”

I huffed. “No. Wait, army surgeon, yes? With the…?” I brushed a finger across my cheek.

“Glass eye that wandered, yes. Saw him a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, how is he?” I asked.

“Dead. Went to the funeral.”

Holmes snorted.

“Well, that’s too bad,” I replied.

“I hardly remembered him myself, but he definitely remembered me. Bequeathed me all his medical texts and accoutrement, as they say, including a skeleton that he claimed was William Burke.”

“The bodysnatcher? I thought his skeleton was in Edinburgh.”

“Palgrave said that one was a fake.”

Holmes laughed.

The colonel continued. “Had a penchant for the macabre, our colonel. A few of the texts are a bit gruesome and, well, a few of the others are…” He raised an eyebrow.

I nodded.

“…but the skeleton, currently hanging in the library, has been causing quite a stir since it arrived a few days ago. Seems one of the servants saw it glow and creep about the room.” He held his arm out with clawed hands. “Like this.”

“Good Lord,” I said, chuckling. “Surely it’s some kind of joke.”

“Perhaps. What say you, Mister Holmes?”

“I say that I will solve it,” he announced, rising to his feet. “Tomorrow. After a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed and a lungful or two of your salubrious country air.”

“Excellent. And you both should have a look at Palgrave’s books. If there are any that might prove boons to your own libraries…” He made a gesture.

“That’s very generous of you, Colonel. Until tomorrow.”

“Good night, gentlemen.”

* * *

Holmes crept through the dark room. There was a tiny light emanating from the mouth of the skeleton. He reached a hand out and…

_Snap!_

He shouted as the skeleton closed its jaws on his hand.

“Release me, you fiend!”

I struck my match and emerged from behind the sofa, laughing.

“Holmes! We got you!”

Hayter appeared from behind the curtain.

“Oh, Mister Holmes! You are a sight!” he cried. “Caught in death’s grip, are you?” He giggled.

Holmes gave us a look, first surprised, then affronted, then finally—to my relief—amused.

“Forgive the joke at your expense, Mister Holmes, here in the country we must often create our own diversions.”

“Tis quite all right, Colonel, I have been taken in by worse,” he said good-naturedly.

“I knew that you wouldn’t be able to wait until morning,” I said. “And I don’t snore that loudly.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. Then he said, “Well, I can’t see any reason for the disturbances, Colonel. Perhaps more will be evident in the morning.”

He nodded, and the three of us filed out of the room.

We had turned the corner when Holmes said, “Oh, I dropped my pipe in the library. Watson, Colonel? Would one of you be so kind…?”

We both agreed. I followed Hayter into the dark room.

The skeleton was glowing. Its hands were raised. It leaned towards us as if to catch us in its bony grasp.

I screamed. Hayter screamed.

I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and jumped.

“All right, show yourself,” said Holmes.

Two maids appeared from behind the curtains.

“Congratulations and a guinea for you both,” said Holmes “You have made two war-hardened veterans squeal like babes.”

* * *

There were brandies all around.

“A bit of fabric with that phosphorescent paint that we know from our dog days, Watson. And long thin threads. They manipulated the strings like skilled puppeteers.”

“How a pair of girls can fool a wizened old soldier! It humbles one,” said Hayter with a sigh. “They claim an altruistic end, that is, to have done it to prevent others from looking at Palgrave’s naughty books. Perhaps it’s best if you took the lot, Watson. Gift or destroy as you see fit what is of no use to you.”

I nodded and set my glass down. “So, is this how our time is to be?” I asked, looking from Holmes to Hayter. “Jokes and pranks and home-spun diversions?”

“I fervently hope so,” said Hayter.

Holmes grinned. “Just a quiet rest in the country, my dear Watson.”   


	19. The Valley of Fear, part II, chapters 5-7 + epilogue (60 + In Memoriam stanza)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Piercing  
> Canon Story: The Valley of Fear, part II  
> Summary: Holmes clarifies his final gesture of the story.

“Holmes, you are straining, aren’t you?”   
“I am Watson.”   
“To pierce the veil?”   
“No! I just said that I need time for that! I am straining to see what’s in the street. To pierce the film on these filthy windows. I must have a word with Mrs. Hudson about the new girl.”   
“For God’s sake, no! Let me do it!”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** In Memoriam stanza

A hero felled by evil wind.  
A life of daring swept away.  
A story’s pawn denied a stay.  
A villain's hand ensures his end.


	20. The Resident Patient (60 + bref double)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Monsters  
> Canon Story: The Resident Patient  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Scylla and Charybis aren't the only mythological beasts to threaten Watson. Here's a list.

1.The Hydra [of the Rent]. Just when last month’s damage has been paid, the incident with the rug occurs.

2.Medusa. Mrs. Hudson upon seeing what happened to the rug.

3.The fire-breathing Chimera. Holmes when he’s has been smoking all day (and forgot his tooth powder).

4.The Sphinx. Watson himself when anyone asks where he was injured.

 

* * *

**Poetic form:** bref double

 

So much depends on letters arranged.

_“My dear Holmes!” I ejaculated._

Words assembled in exclamation,

yet say much more when severed, transposed.

 

_“My dear, I—!” Holmes ejaculated._

suggests alarm, endearment exchanged.

_I, Holmes, ejaculated. “My dear—!“_

reveals much more than reader supposed.

 

One draws near logic’s degradation…

_“Dear, I ejaculated my Holmes!”_

_“Holmes, my ejaculated dear! I—“_

…with permutations writ, exposed.

 

En fin, one reverts to text unchanged

and Victorian denotation.


	21. The Greek Interpreter (60 + tyburn + parody song lyrics)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Nature vs. Nurture  
> Canon Story: The Greek Interpreter  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Holmes and Watson resume their conversation.  
> Author's Note: Reader's choice as to what inclination/vice Watson is referring to. Ukulele-playing, anyone?

“Nature or nurture, Watson? The tree from whence the acorn falls or the soil of its landing?”

“Both, I suppose, plus the sun and rain that grace it. As a young man, I had certain inclinations, which I actively cultivated and which Providence has seen fit to afford opportunities for honing. “

“Another set of vices when you’re well?”

“Indeed.”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** tyburn

Aloft  
Awaft  
Made-soft  
Mycroft  
Scent of fresh bread aloft, awaft slays  
Iron routine. Made-soft Mycroft strays.

* * *

Inspired by [this conversation ](http://sherlock60.livejournal.com/544387.html)related to The Bruce-Partington Plans.

  
To the tune of the theme song of ‘Thomas and his Friends’ (cartoon)  
  
They’re two, they’re two, they’re one, they’re B.  
Solving puzzles, drinking tea.  
Clever, witty, brave and kind.  
Knots and tangles to unwind.  
Friends and foes with roles to play.  
Round London-town or far away.  
‘pon the moor and round the bends  
Sherlock and his friends.  
  
Sherlock, he’s the brainy one.  
Watson’s ready with his gun.  
Yarders help from time to time.  
[Mrs.] Hudson fights the crime o’ grime.  
Mycroft though he knows his stuff  
Never wants to huff or puff  
From hall to Mall he never strays  
But to kip down D’og’nes way!  
  
They’re two, they’re six, they’re eight, they’re four.  
Solving puzzles, crimes and more.  
Nabbing Greeks and cursed gems.  
Bodies floating in the Thames  
(Whether) Vengeful thugs or scheming profs,  
greedy squires or silly toffs,  
Evil means will meet their ends  
(With) Sherlock and his friends.


	22. Copper Beeches (60 + doggerel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: I Say, Watson!  
> Canon Story: Copper Beeches  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: In which Holmes harrumphs.

“ _’Running up, I blew its brains out_ ….’ I say, Watson!”   
“Blame the editors. They are now clamouring for less comic relief, more action!”   
He harrumphed.  “But for the mirror, I’d hardly know who we are anymore!”   
I glanced at our reflections in the glass. “We do make a fetching pair, don’t we?”   
He smiled. “Indeed. Illustrator and editors be damned.”

* * *

 **Poetic Form:** Doggerel

A snow-white muzzled terrier  
Whose aide with pills did bury her.  
An Airedale true who met his end  
By falling into lion’s den.  
An evil test of infant’s fate  
el pobre Carlo’s stiffened gait.  
A long-haired, lop-eared mongrel queer  
Whose nose detective’s course did steer.  
The swift Pompey who also led  
the way in wake of brougham’s tread.  
Twas scents that drove poor Roy half-wild,  
of man and ape, unreconciled.  
A Shoscombe breed was cast away  
when mistress’s role was man’s to play.  
A stable-guard when mute abet  
a scoundrel’s scheme to pay his debt.  
The massive mastiff starved, unleashed  
his rage upon two-legged beast.  
Of all, the canine most renowned  
is Dartmoor’s phantom glowing hound.  
  
The morals of these yarns may be  
to man’s best friend collectively:  
beware of outstretched hands that feed,  
of trails where scents and gents may lead;  
to bark or not, your choice to make,  
though always clue, ‘tis ne’er mistake;  
And whene’er Watson draws his gun,  
there’s nothing left to do but run!

 

 


	23. The Sign of Four (60 + mini-monoverse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Other Cases  
> Canon Story: The Sign of Four, Chapters 1-4  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: We know what's in the Moroccan case, but what's in the other cases?

1\. The Turkish case: favourite tobaccos, a generous portion of his perennial; a smaller portion of Watson’s current.   
2\. The Belgian case: bars of chocolate for Watson for lengthy waits or journeys.   
3\. The Parisian case: naughty postcards, one of two sets.    
4\. The Sumatran case: rare poisons.   
5\. The Indian case: a stack of letters, a pouch of tea, both dry and brittle with age.

* * *

**Poetic Form:** Mini-monoverse

Miss Mary  
Is very  
much wary   
of scary  
and hairy  
plot. Her thought  
though much fraught  
with evil wrought  
is also caught  
in love’s knot.


	24. The Sign of Four (60 + haiku x 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Pondicherry Lodge  
> Canon Story: The Sign of Four  
> Rating: Gen  
> Content Notes: OCs (Inky Quill, porcupine, and Baxter, mole)  
> Summary: One creature's empty treasure-hole is another one's castle.  
> Author's Note: _"It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose in it."_

“Mister Baxter, are you leaving us?”  
“Oh, yes, Mister Quill, me, the missus, the whole family. Haven’t you heard?”   
“Uh, no. I’ve been on holiday.”   
“We’re all headed for Norwood. Pondicherry Lodge. An entire estate of very nice family homes. Ready-built. Move right in. No digging necessary. Why I doubt there’ll be a mole in England anywhere else very soon!”

* * *

 **Poetic form:** haiku

Estate full of holes  
One's failure, another's castle  
Estate full of moles

 

'Midst wild, dark business  
'Tranquil English home' calls like  
a port in a storm.

 

Best not t' argue  
Bag o' wiper o'erhead  
An' forty-three 'ounds.


	25. Fic: Soft Sea of Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Soft Sea of Sound  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 500  
> Content Notes: Related to my WW fic [Lieder](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7390423/chapters/17015514)  
> Summary: Holmes POV of the 'playinig violin so Watson can sleep' scene in _The Sign of Four_  
>  Author's Note: Inspired by gardnerhill's [limerick](http://sherlock60.livejournal.com/632824.html#/comments%22) of last week. For the LJ Holmes Minor comm August prompt: relaxation.

I have noted your fatigue on four separate occasions since this case began, Watson. Work took priority earlier, but now I sense there will be a lull.    
  
Time, then, for a lullaby.   
  
“ _Lie down there on the sofa and see if I can put you to sleep_.”   
  
You comply at once, stretching yourself out.    
  
I take up my violin from the corner and launch into a melody of my own composition.  You may later suspect that it is an improvisation.    
  
Not an improvisation, my dear man, but very much an equation, and one calculated with as much precision as any of the experiments that have littered the tables and chairs, and, in rare instances, curtains and rugs, of our shared rooms.    
  
Since the beginning, I have played for you, to entertain, yes, but, more importantly, to ease the suffering of your body and mind. In the very early days, I even hosted casual breakfast table tutorials, where we discussed music, composers, and interpretations, over tea and toast. From your reactions and questions, I formed a picture of your intellectual musical taste, that is, what you perceived as pleasing. I coupled that picture with the one observed, watching your body in various stages of relaxation as you listened to my playing.   
  
I have experimented with style and volume and even the movement of my own body as I pace, turn, and sway.   
  
Every domestic recital is a source of data, and I carefully alter the template based on the success and failure of previous encounters.   
  
This morning’s objective is to send you floating in dreamland as swiftly and surely as possible and to keep you there for as long as your body wills it, that you sleep soundly and awake strengthened and refreshed. There have been other prizes: in the early days, it was to rid you of nightmares or distract you from the aches and pains of your injuries as well as to ward off any despondency at your limitations.   
  
Your eyelids droop. You may have a vague remembrance of my limbs, my face, the rise and fall of my bow, no more. When your eyes finally close, my visage will, no doubt, be replaced with that of another.    
  
_ “What a very attractive woman!” _  
_ “Is she? I did not observe.” _  
  
Absurd and false. I observed her attractiveness, of course, not directly, but rather reflected in your own expressions and gestures of overt gentility.    
  
But no matter, let her fill your mind, populate your dreams, as you drift off.   
  
I will take your body. Its relaxation. The way your muscles loosen, your brow unfolds. The way your skin falls smooth and slack. The gentle snoring that will fill the air in nineteen to twenty-three minutes if I continue at this tempo.   
  
I note that the tonic has had its effect on man and beast. Toby is also off to dreamland, curled beneath the table. And I do not lower the instrument until Wiggins arrives with his report.


	26. The Sign of Four (60 + quintilla)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Sign of Four  
> Rating: Gen  
> Warning: Cannibalism  
> Summary: Small corrects Holmes' reference.  
> Author's Note: The members of the only pygmy tribe with which I have had personal contact (not of the Andamans) are much more likely to be victims, than perpetrators of cannibalism.

“Little Tonga’s body should be send home, Mister Holmes.”  
“That can be arranged.”   
“Unlikely. Your book’s wrong. Tonga’s people don’t eat strangers. But those jackals from the mainland hunt his kind like beasts, carve ‘em up, and swallow their flesh. Say it makes ‘em invincible. They’ve fished him out of the Thames and made a feast of him by now.”

* * *

 **Poetic Form:** quintilla

Pray leave for me the morphine vial.  
Cocaine is not what I require.  
A blood at boil, a mind afire  
Both contrary to soul’s desire.  
With gate of horn dreams, I retire  
To whittle, carve the lonely while.

 


	27. The Noble Bachelor (60 + tongue twister poetry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Conversations over a Bottle  
> Canon Story: The Noble Bachelor  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Pining Holmes pines.

You address the bottle’s spider-nest shawl.   
_‘But what is love without display, public or private?’_  
Oh, Watson.   
It is a poem written in the sand before the incoming tide.   
It is a serenade in an empty house.   
It is making pawns of men so that an heiress’s treasure lies at the bottom of the Thames.   
That is love.   
Isn’t it?

* * *

  **Poetic Form:** Tongue Twister Poetry **(WARNING: adult language & themes)**

How much cock could a woodcock block  
if the woodcock was named Jacques?  
How much cock could a woodcock mock  
if the woodcock was named Jacque?  
How much cock could a woodcock hawk  
if the woodcock was named Jacques?  
\---  
I’m uneasily queasy  
poor Watson’s gots the trots (or the privy-squats or the belly-rots)  
and it’s all account (that is, it’s all the lots)  
of that schemin’ shamin’ pimpin’ woodcock Jacques!

 


	28. The Naval Treaty (60)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Naval Treaty  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Handwriting tells.

“I concede the point about the handwriting being a woman’s, Holmes, but how did you know that she was of rare character?"   
“When we return to London, I shall do a demonstration and point out the telling characteristics of the Phelps letter and a similar missive.”    
“What missive?”   
“The one Mrs. Watson included enclosed with the invitation to your wedding.”


	29. The Hound of the Baskervilles (60 + call and response)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Sticks and Stones  
> Canon Story: The Hound of the Baskervilles, Chapters 1-4  
> Rating: Mature for implied slash and phallic humour  
> Summary: A 60-word dick joke, that is all.  
> Author's Note: Keeping it classy on the 60. That's me!

“Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”   
“Interesting, though elementary; larger than a terrier, smaller than a mastiff; though originally a very handsome one, it’s been so knocked about—“   
“Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it,” said Holmes indignantly.   
“Put that Penang lawyer aside this Northumberland doctor and we’ll see, my dear man.”

* * *

Poetic Form: Call and Response (to the tune of "Three Little Girls from School" from "The Mikado")

 

Country doctor, troubled, wary

Came from the moor and did not tarry

Came from the moor, dark and dreary

Came from the moor, to town.

 

Country doctor, came to the city

Came with stick and spaniel, did he

Came with a story, grim and gritty

“There’s on the moor, a hound.”

 

Country doctor came to London

Came from the moor, yes, that’s where he come from

“What shall I do? Oh, help me someone!

There’s on the moor, a hound!”

 

Country doctor knocked on the door, he

Knocked on the door of 221B

“Oh, what shall I do with young sir Henry?

There’s on the moor, a hound!”

 


	30. The Hound of the Baskervilles (60 + musette)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Hound of the Baskervilles, Chapters 5-8  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: In which Holmes learns that Watson is branching out in terms of genre and the mystery of the missing page of the first report is resolved.  
> Author's Note: Orchids, yes, orchids.

****__ ‘Would you fetch me that orchid amongst the mare’s-tails yonder?’   
_‘I shall pluck whatever silken-leafed, many-folded blossom you desire, my dark-eyed beauty.’_   
_ ‘We’re rich in orchids here,’ she breathed, her perfect figure trembling in his embrace. _   
__ ‘There’s only one petalled treasure I seek…’   
  
“‘The Wild Orchid of the Moor’ by Ormond Sacker!” Holmes ejaculated.

* * *

**Poetic Form:** Musette

 

Hounds howl

and pace and paw

and prowl.

 

Hollow

thunder. Rumbles

follow.

 

Gates screech

bewail, bemoan,

beseech.

 

Boots scrape.

Hairs prickle on

neck’s nape.

 

‘Midst rain

four wheels clatter

down lane.

 

Stair creak

‘Neath footfall mild

and meek.

 

Clocks chime

witching hours, tocks

of time.

 

 

Winds sweep.

Crisp leaves rustle,

stir sleep.

 

Tale ends.

Warm fire crackles

twixt friends.


	31. The Hound of the Baskervilles (60 + tanka)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Man on the Tor  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Poem, POV Watson, slash implied.

The man on the tor   
Knows the how and wherefore   
Of tomorrow and yore   
and truth from lore   
  
The man on the tor   
whom rogues abhor   
for whom gold is ore    
and rest a chore   
  
The man on the tor   
who might, of life, ask for    
more,   
much more.   
“Lo! The one I adore!”   
Cries the man on the tor.

* * *

**Poetic Form:** Tanka

The serpent's wisdom  
Distraction through inquiry  
Using the ego's conceit  
Sharp questions deflect like shields  
Draw the curious away


	32. The Hound of the Baskervilles (60 + kennings poem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Fleas  
> Canon Story: The Hound of the Baskervilles, Chapter 13-15  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: A gift from Sir Henry.

"Bearskin rug, what a thoughtful gift, you said!"  
 _Scratch, scratch!_  
"Water under the bridge, you said!"  
 _Scratch, scratch!_  
"Telegram, Mister Holmes."  
"I'll take it, Mrs. Hudson. Mister Holmes is occupied. Speak of the devil, it's from Sir Henry. He and Mortimer have reached Bombay. WHEN YOU LIE DOWN WITH HOUNDS, MISTER HOLMES STOP. YOU MAY WAKE UP WITH..."  
 _Scratch, scratch!_

* * *

**Poetic Form:** kennings poem

scheme-steeper  
mire-tuft-leaper  
upon-cycliopedes-creeper  
make-sister-wife-weep-er  
secret-hound-keeper  
seeds-sown-reaper

 


	33. The Stock-broker's Clerk (60 + villanelle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Stockbroker's Clerk  
> Rating: Gen  
> Author's Note: Muse is not amused this week. I got nothing but a silly joke.

“Oh, this is clever!”   
“Excuse me?”   
“I mean I know he’s the older, more astute brother, but I didn’t realise he was also a superior master of disguise. Where on earth did you hid the bulk? Or is the bulk itself a disguise? Let’s see! PIE-CROFT!”   
“WATSON!”   
“Forget my case, Mister Holmes. I’ll take my chances with the  _ other _ madmen.”

* * *

Poetic Form: Villanelle

New slippers by the fire on a sunny afternoon  
New slippers by the fire tell the tale  
New slippers by the fire in so wet a June

New slippers by the fire whilst the summer swallows croon  
New slippers for the less-than-hearty, hale  
New slippers by the fire on a sunny afternoon

New slippers by the fire though summer crocuses festoon  
New slippers scorched whilst cough, ague assail  
New slippers by the fire in so wet a June

New slippers by the fire peek from winter’s wool cocoon  
New slippers worn, yet bear their proof of sale  
New slippers by the fire on a sunny afternoon

New slippers by the fire, nearby toddy, tea, and spoon  
New slippers for the shivering and pale  
New slippers by the fire in so wet a June  
   
Though now you whistle an easy tune  
your feet sing of yesterday’s travail  
New slippers by the fire on a sunny afternoon  
New slippers by the fire in so wet a June

 

 


	34. A Scandal in Bohemia (60 + fib)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: A Trifle More  
> Rating: Teen (for setting)  
> Summary: Holmes to Mary.  
> Author's Note: Last 60 words of my poly Holmes/Mary/Watson fic, [A Trifle More](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8241592), which is the full-length version of the one published for the Holmes_Minor September prompt. Probably cheating, I know.

Sleep was near, like a client oscillating on the pavement.    
“I have neither the character nor society’s permission to tend to him as you do. And he is so conspicuously loved; his person, wardrobe, everything about him says so.”   
“I act as any wife.”   
“Indeed. I should have thought a little more.” I heard him smile. “Just a trifle more.”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** fib

The  
Woman  
takes the cake,  
wedding, leaves behind  
a parting gift, shot, photograph  
for the puzzled pup, hesitant hound, stumped sleuth, Esquire.

 


	35. The Engineer's Thumb (60 + 221B verselet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Those who do not learn from [Watson's] history are doomed to repeat it.  
> Canon Story: The Engineer's Thumb  
> Summary: Holmes makes a deduction.

“So, in summary, you accepted a suspiciously exorbitant fee from a person of suspicious character for work of an even more suspicious character and took a journey alone with this person to an unknown destination in the middle of the night?”  
  
“Yes.”   
  
“And you were surprised when something grievous occurred?”   
  
“Yes!”   
  
“Mister Hatherley’s not familiar with your earlier works, Watson."

* * *

 **Poetic Form:** 221B verselet

Window sill

Escape route?

Chopping

block!

 


	36. The Crooked Man (60 + Schüttelreim)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Crooked Man  
> Rating: Teen (for a not-especially-funny testicle joke & blasphemous use of the Old Testament)  
> Summary: Holmes channels Dupin.  
> Author's Note: According to wikipedia, "the story of David's adultery sets up the context for the penitential Psalm 51. The final verse of the psalm is:  "Then shalt thou be pleased with the sacrifices of righteousness, with burnt offering and whole burnt offering: then shall they offer bullocks upon thine altar."

“Rheumatism troubling you, Watson?”

“How’d you deduce that?”

“Association of ideas. After I spoke of David and Bathsheba, you shifted uncomfortably in your chair. The former violated the latter at the bath, which is where you seek relief for your afflictions, is it not? I forget, how does that penitential psalm of David’s end?”

I chuckled. “With bullocks on altars.”

* * *

Poetic Form: Schüttelreim

"Bloody cur! Who else'd pinch tarts, glom mousse?!"  
  
"Don't blame Puddin' Paws! Twas the mongoose!"


	37. The Boscombe Mystery (60 + blank verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: An Unclean Shave  
> Canon Story: The Boscombe Valley Mystery  
> Summary: Holmes isn't the only one who notices the effects of a right-sided bedroom window. POV Miss Turner.

Thank goodness, an answer to prayer! I am certain he will uncover the truth and wake James from this wretched nightmare!

“Oh, Mister Sherlock Holmes!”

Now, which one of them is he?

Him? No, surely a great detective can give himself a more precise shave than that. Let’s hope it’s other one.

“I am so glad that you have come…”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** Blank Verse

 

Violet eyes flash as they re-read the telegram form.

Lips part. Cheeks flush. Chin nods.

Violet eyes disappear behind curtains of lash and lid as a silent beseeching prayer floats into the ether.

\---

Violet eyes shine as they re-read the telegram.

Lips curl. Cheeks flush. Chin rises.

Violet eyes look to the heavens as a silent prayer of thanks floats towards the clouds.

\---

Violet eyes dart from face to face and settle.

Lips open. Voice speaks. Head is thrown back.

Violet eyes look defiant as hope surges in the heart.

\---

Violet eyes rest on the husk of a father.

Lips press together. Cheeks pale. Chin drops.

Violet eyes soften as hands busy themselves with sickbed toil.

\---

Violet eyes shine wet when the news is announced.

Lips part. Chin nods.

Violet eyes lay hidden in pinched sockets while tears of relief, joy cascade down cheeks.

\---

Violet eyes flash when the confession is whispered.

Lips press. Cheeks hollow. Chin quivers.

Violet eyes darken, drop to the rug.

\---

Violet eyes shine as they re-read the telegram form.

IT IS FOR THE BEST STOP WITH SISTERLY LOVE STOP VIOLET EYES STOP.

Head shakes. Fingers crumple paper, then reach for the handle of the suitcase.

Violet eyes sparkle as the train pulls into the station.

 

 


	38. The Five Orange Pips (60 + micropoetry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Five Orange Pips  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Watson defends Aunt Morstan.  
> Author's Note: This is based on sanguinity's [So Keen a Sympathy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2891915), which ends with former girlfriends Mary and Kate Whitney from "The Man with the Twisted Lip" going to the Continent together (with Watson's blessing) while Kate's husband is away in rehab.

“An aunt,” I repeated.

Holmes nodded. “No doubt an elderly aunt requiring a robust traveling companion to fully enjoy her tour of the Continent?”

“Precisely. A change’s as good as a rest. It will do them both a world of good.”

“Mrs. Watson is assured that you are in good hands whilst she’s away?”

“She’s every faith in Mrs. Hudson.”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** Micropoetry

“Amateur Mendicants, Watson?”  
“They’d would’ve been a might easier on the furniture than the Professional Arse-Lickers—“  
“Supplicants, Watson.”  
“—were.”


	39. The Man with the Twisted Lip (60 + ghazal)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Man with the Twisted Lip  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Sherlock Holmes and opium are two helluva drugs.

“I knew what he was when I married him: a man whose heart would never be wholly mine. I married him anyway. Why…” Kate shook her head. “I know you pity me; I know you say, ‘There but for the grace of God…”

Mary covered Kate’s trembling hand with her own.

“Not ‘but,’ ‘with.’ There _with_ God’s grace, go I.”

* * *

 **Poetic Form:** Ghazal

 

A foolish freak to lace an ounce of shag

with laudanum, replace an ounce of shag

with shame, with pain, with strife, a life’s own worth.

 

A silly choice: a beggar’s Boone. To waste

love’s trust as one’d displace an ounce of shag

with pounds and pence of lies disguised, misspent.

 

A Lascar’s pocket brims: with secrets, coins,

and post to soon misplace. An ounce of shag

is all that he may call his own, not bought.

 

A doctor’s flaw: to fear the worst of one

near opiate’s embrace. An ounce of shag,

a sleight of hand, in fog, the hound doth hide.

 

A case resolved on pillows five. A haze

of smoke the only trace an ounce of shag

has left, of kindled-mind and prose inside.

 

 

 

 


	40. A Case of Identity (60 + fable)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: A Case of Identity  
> Title: Watson, Velvet Fist in an Iron Glove  
> Rating: Teen (for language; implied BDSM; dom!Watson/sub!Holmes)  
> Summary: Watson champions truth.

“Hafiz, Horace, and Holmes the Horse’s Arse! You will tell her the truth!”

“Or?”

“That,” I said, snatching the hunting-crop from his hand, “is mine, and you will separate that girl from her delusion in as kind and as gentle a manner as possible, or I shall resist every urge—and request—to paint your pale hindquarters red!”

“Yes, Captain."

* * *

Poetic Form: fable (based on Aesop's fable [The Monkey and the Dolphin](http://www.aesopfables.com/cgi/aesop1.cgi?sel&TheMonkeyandtheDolphin))

 

A shipwrecked monkey clad in sailor’s garb

did fool the gentle eye of sailor’s friend.

Just so an ape used Angel’s guise as barb

to hook a dolphin-daughter mild, to bend

her will and fix her purse to his and him.

The rescued monkey’s clever plan was foiled

when false reply exposed a trickster dim.

The typist woke to wedding day despoiled,

bright-eyed, about her littered fallen scales.

“Be gone, my Angel false, you shan’t be missed.

your scoundrel’s fog has lifted, truth prevails

[thanks] to doctors, Watson and my oculist!”

And so beware all primates foul, your ploys may come to naught,

one word misspoke, one pince-nez new, your lies will have you caught!


	41. The Red-Headed League (60 + jueju)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Red-Headed League  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Blank verse based on the line: 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico' you know and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid.

My poor little reputation   
sails upon the sea   
of client conversation   
over coffee, tea.   
Along comes an augmentation    
of wind, mightily   
gales blow. Off course, destination,   
dashed upon the rocks,   
‘ _ Omne ignotum pro magnifico _ ’   
toll the bells, chime the clocks,   
as my little reputation   
is wrecked verily.   
One splinter’s spared devastation,    
crowned by Doctor’s ejaculation,   
“Brilliant as ever to me!”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** Jueju

 **Title:** The Call of the Booty: Thwarted, Pacified, Realised (jueju of 7 words x 3)

uninvited unannounced but not unwelcome. apology unnecessary.  
my withdrawal halted. door closed behind me.  
the next room will have to wait.  
i try. the settee’s no substitute, consolation.

a date. lunch and St. James’s Hall.  
swing of nature. lust of chase. his.  
waving fingers. smiling lips. languid eyes. his.  
front-row seat to happiness. his. consolation. mine.

early hours of the morning. baker street.  
you see, watson. i do see, holmes.  
this glass of whiskey and soda is  
witness to a crime. only heart-snatching, love.


	42. The Blue Carbuncle (60 + colour poem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Blue Carbuncle  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Ryder isn't the only one who gets a bit of compassion.

“Mr. Baker? Something to read to your children.”   
“ _ Greek Myths _ . Oh, you’re too kind, Doctor Watson.”   
“The illustrations are quite good.”   
“Thank you again, sir.”   
The door closed.   
“He may sell it, Watson.”   
“He may. Harry liked books, too. Never had any for long. But, who knows, reading aloud about heroes might just remind a man who he could be.”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** Colour poem

**Title:** Black

black  
ink daubed on stains in felt [ _self-respect pawned, but not sold outright, not yet_ ]  
ink pressed into thirty words, multiplied, marched across the metropolis like troops of army ants [ _by one for whom shillings are more plentiful than they once were_ ]  
ink scrawled in a ledger [ _a goose club is still a club where a wager may be made on Christmas fortunes, appealing to both the man of yesterday’s foresight and today’s weakened nature_ ]  
companionable silence [ _cut by footfalls, crisp and loud, and the breath of passers-by_ ] beneath stars shining coldly in a cloudless night  
wit [ _the kind that crafts, then utters the phrase ‘fowl fancier’ with highly improbable solemnity_ ]  
band of tail feathers rustling [ _twice_ ]  
bits of perfectly-singed woodcock [ _reserved for a doctor_ ]  
wine bathed in candleshadow [ _observed, savoured by a detective_ ]  
tang of tobacco when flesh [ _bird_ ] and spirit [ _grape_ ] are features of interest no more [ _case closed_ ]  
frock-coat buttoned up the front [ _against the chill, within and without_ ]  
brand of thief [ _No more words. Get out!_ ]  
hollow of a hand, which holds [ _a curse a curio, a cold rock, a smudge of crystal-charcoal_ ]  
a gem whose whose kiss is blue, but whose heart is ever  
black.

 


	43. The Dying Detective (60 + epulaeryu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Dying Detective  
> Rating: Gen  
> Warning: POSSIBLE SPOILER: Based on speculation about Season 4 of BBC Sherlock based on trailers.

“I think the steak and kidney pie. What say you, Watson?”  
“I say that you go directly from ‘miraculous recovery from melodramatic wasting disease’ to ‘death by grievous gastrointestinal assault.’ For goodness sake, Holmes, start with a consommé!”   
“I shan’t. The claret and biscuits had a negligible effect. And you’re wrong.”   
“About?”   
“It being melodramatic. Melodramatic would’ve been going blind.”

* * *

 **Poetic Form:** epulaeryu

Poet's Note: (POV bacteria [probably _Burkholderia pseudomallei_ ])

thrust into a Savage feast  
invisible pest  
helps itself until it pops  
divides and conquers  
host, meal are no more,  
sinister  
guest!


	44. The Final Problem (60 + renga)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Final Problem  
> Rating: Gen

The telegram fluttered to the floor.   
“My dear, you look pale as a ghost! What is it?”   
“I am afraid I must return to London at once.”   
“Is it your husband?”   
“Yes.”   
“Oh, my dear, is he, I mean to say, did something—?”   
“It is far worse than being a widow.”   
“What is?”   
“Being the wife of a widower.” 

* * *

**Poetic Form:** renga

fury’s whip, us, lash  
at the Welbeck Street crossing  
demon-mounts, us, flash  
  
my springing for the foot-path  
forehorsed the looming blood-bath  
  
atop clayed kin,  
aside brother slate, i wait   
for shattering wind  
  
my brick-dusted boots, you see,  
stem from poor geometry  
  
i fly, fall, head-first  
from rough hand to rough ground with  
unslaked battle thirst  
  
a common attack, ‘tis said,  
an uncommon path ahead


	45. The Empty House (60 + etheree)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Bitterness  
> Canon Story: The Empty House  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Holmes has asked for forgiveness before today.

“ _Then you use me and yet do not trust me!_ ”

My words echoed off the exterior of a Neolithic hut on the Devonshire moor to a quiet Kensington study.

“I am not partner, Holmes. I am pawn!”

He opened his mouth. I raised my hand.

“You will do it again. It is my lot to forgive and yours to trespass.”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** etheree [inspired by the title of the book that disguised Holmes drops]

Man’s

urge to

climb the spire

stately, handsome,

that reaches for and

approaches heaven’s gates,

that bears fruit and bestows shade,

that affords unparalleled views

of the world as well as himself, is

in fact, the origin of tree worship.

The origins of tree worship have roots

in the deep, formidable reverence

of the stoic for the restless

unremitting adorer

whose veneration ends

cradled in his boughs

at rest, at peace

in arbor,

tree and

man.

 

 

 


	46. The Norwood Builder (60 + line messaging)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Norwood Builder  
> Rating: Gen

“Rabbits, Watson? The bones of two rabbits equal to that of a man?”    
I shrugged. “Your theory of a domestic understanding is without a single proof.”   
“Indeed, but I  believe that Jonas Oldacre is not the only character in our tale who knows how to patiently plot revenge. Rest in peace, Mister Lexington. Whatever your sins, your account is paid.”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** line messaging

How brightly   
love’s spritely  
memory doth   
burn.  
  
A chapter  
hereafter  
never lost to  
yore.  
  
Others rust  
gather dust  
but this, one doth  
husband.  
  
I recall  
bits and all  
as lucidly  
as you do.  
  
Faint whisper  
clear, crisper,  
it echoes of  
yore.  
  
The lot to marry  
Must e’er carry  
(and be carried)  
‘cross love’s final  
bridge.


	47. Fic: Plumage (ACD Winglock, "The Dancing Men")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Plummage  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 600  
> Content Notes: Winglock AU set during "The Dancing Men"  
> Summary: Holmes and Watson do not have to wait for the morning train to North Walsham and therefore are able to prevent the tragedy at Riding Thorpe Manor.  
> Author's Notes: Borrowing from the Winglock AU established by Rachelindeed in [Stormy Petrels](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1656885.html), Holmes has the wings of a goshawk, Watson has the wings of skylark. Inspired by the opening paragraph of "The Dancing Men" where Watson says, _"...he looked from my point of view like a strange, lank bird, with dull grey plumage and a black top knot."_

“We have let this affair go far enough,” said Holmes. “Is there a train to North Walsham to-night?”

I turned up the time table. The last had just gone.

“Then we must fly,” he said, stretching his dull grey wings.

“Why not take the first train in the morning?” I protested, though my own brown wings extended in mirrored response to his. “I am lark, not a nightingale.”

Mrs. Hudson entered with a cablegram. As Holmes read it, his expression darkened. “This makes it essential. If we are quick, Watson, we shall, for once, prevent a crime instead of solving it.”

“Very well, but it is July, Holmes,” I said, looking solemn.

“Yes,” he replied, drawing out the word and lacing it with mock peevishness. “Singing.”

“My summer song!” I crooned.

* * *

We alighted at North Walsham. Holmes sent a message to the Norfolk Constabulary to meet us at Riding Thorpe Manor, then secured a guide to lead us to our destination.

Mister Cubitt was not expecting us. His grouse-like feathers ruffled.

“Apologies,” said Holmes curtly. “But danger is imminent. May we speak with your wife?”

“At this hour?”

“Your lives may depend on it.”

When Mrs. Cubitt appeared, she was bundled in layers of grey-brown. Her eyes were large and mournful, her voice a quivering coo.

“We know a portion of your secret, Madame,” said Holmes. He laid the drawings of the dancing men on the table and explained his deciphering of the code. “’ELSIE PREPARE TO MEET YOUR GOD’ is ominous, is it not? This Abe Slaney is at a place called Elriges. Is that an inn?”

“Not one known to me,” said Cubitt. “But I will ask the servants.”

“But this man, Abe Slaney, he _is_ known to you, isn’t he, Mrs. Cubitt?” insisted Holmes.

“Yes,” she wailed and poured out a sorrowful tale of a broken pledge and her flight to escape a violent man.

“We will send a coded note to him at Elridges and lure him here. I’ve alerted the police; they’ll be here shortly.”

“He is coming at three in the morning,” whispered Mrs. Cubitt. “I sent him a letter. I told him it would break my heart if any scandal came upon you, my dear. I am to speak to him through the end window. I’ve even collected some money so that he might leave me in peace.”

“Elsie, he might have killed you! Do you think I care about scandal when your very life is in danger?”

Holmes and I eased away from the couple.

“You come armed, Watson?”

“Naturally.”

“Good. Oh, hear that? The wings of a martin, an Inspector Martin, to be precise.”

“Holmes,” I groaned.

“A pun or two in exchange for your unrelenting _en route_ warbling.”

“You love my warbling.”

“You love my puns.”

* * *

“A jay,” exclaimed Holmes with disgust. “Abe Slaney was no more than a jay!”

“A jay scared stiff at your stripes, my dear goshawk.”

“They are, on rare occasion, an advantage,” he said, preening a bit before settling into his seat. “Slaney was no formidable adversary.”

“Terrorising someone who rejects you hardly requires expert wit.” I reached for a newspaper as dawn broke beyond the train window.

“The code, though, Watson.”

“He didn’t _invent_ the code, Holmes. And you cracked it.”

“And his head,” Holmes added.

“And his head,” I echoed with a chuckle. “He’s arrested. The Cubitts are safe. All’s well that ends well.”

“Yes, I am eager to return to London as I have a chemical analysis of some interest to finish.”

I wrinkled my nose, unfurled my newspaper, and chirruped.


	48. The Dancing Men (60 + circular poem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Dancing Men  
> Rating Gen  
> Warning: Slash implied  
> Summary: As seen chalked on Watson's bedroom door one morning (translation below)

* * *

My dear Watson,   
What one man can invent, another can discover and use for his own purpose.   
I adore you beyond logic and reason and enjoy no greater pleasure than sharing a morning’s cup of tea or a night’s glass of whiskey aside you.   
Yours ever,   
Holmes   
PS: Yes, I will help Bessie to clean the chalk off the wall.

 

* * *

**Poetic Form:** circular poem

 

Malodorous scent of chimerical brew

was dispersed by whiff of strong, fresh, east-coast air

which, carrying fumes of gun’s foul powder, blew

throughout the manor-hall. Tickled, nostrils flared.

Smoke thinned. East Anglia’s bouquet, soured by rue,

faded as the three-forty chugged towards smell, laid bare,

of fine fowl, home-coming, on dinner plates, two.


	49. The Six Napoleons (60 + Parallelismus Membrorum)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Six Napoleons  
> Rating: G  
> Author's Note: _...No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings._

__** Look, No. 129, there’s the scoundrel, and he’s coming this way!   
** _Oh, No. 131, he makes my foundations quake with rage! Why I’d like to show him a thing!  
 **Flat-chested!**  
Unromantic!_   
_\---_   
“Watson, whatever is the matter?”   
“Holmes, I was back in Kensington today, near Harker’s, and I could swear that the buildings themselves were, well, out to get me!”   
“Brandy?”

* * *

Poetic Form: [Parallelismus Membrorum](http://sherlock60.livejournal.com/568427.html)

Poet's Note: this is a very poor attempt at the form; it hardly qualifies

When cheeks lose pale reserve  
and flush like plum preserves,  
when steel fails to reason  
at praise warm, like treason,  
when fleeing public’s light  
is bowing in friends’ sight,  
a great mind shatters   
for a pearl-heart that matters.


	50. Poem: London A to Z

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a challenge at the LJ Get Your Words Out comm: I was given the letter T and had to produce a 27 consecutive lined work, each line beginning with a subsequent line of the alphabet and coming back to T at the end.

Turkish bath London  
Urban hymn London  
Vesper smoked London  
Water webbed London  
Xenial London  
Yellow fog London  
Zephyr-brushed London   
A-bridged town London  
Bespoke suit London  
City centre London  
Doctors walk London  
Even-tide London  
Flower girl London  
Gaslamp lit London  
Hansom cab London  
Intrigue home London  
Journeyman London  
King’s, queen’s manned London  
Legs weary London  
Maid-made, run London  
Newspaper London  
Opium den London  
Peacock cry London  
Quartered, drawn London  
Regents Park London  
Savile Row London  
To each, their own London


	51. The Second Stain (60 + epistolary verse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Second Stain  
> Rating: G  
> Warning: Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope/Mme. Henri Fournaye  
> Author's Note: Let's give our murderer a bit more consideration.

“My fate was sealed, Hilda, the day you answered my letter.”   
“We were girls, Marie.”    
“Henri! Bastard!”   
“We’ll have our happy ending. I’ve found someone to help.”   
“That detective’s blind.”   
“But his companion is less so. You’ll be declared insane, returned to France by boat for commitment.”   
Marie smiled. “Sea voyages are always perilous.”   
“I’ll perish conveniently. We’ll start anew.”

* * *

 

**Poetic Form:** Epistolary verse (goes with 60 above. Variation on an English sonnet.)

To thee, Marie, my darling, bright-eyed girl—  
Don’t doubt I think of you as you of me.  
A-blossom ‘midst green stem and petal curl,  
a market bloom inclined so prettily.  
  
Too shy was I to let heart’s wish unfurl  
I sketched, hue-etched your charms for all to see  
in chalk, on walk of stone, by market’s swirl   
Soon caught, for naught, I sought to hide love’s glee.  
  
Two bold, unsold to life’s unspoken churl,  
went searching for an isle to breathe and be,  
to swim, to dive for love’s uncultured pearl.  
We found our Eden, there beside the sea.   
  
Don’t doubt I dream of you, my heart’s true love,   
Yours now and evermore, your Hilda-dove


	52. The Golden Pince Nez (60 + beeswing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Golden Pince Nez  
> Title: A Round for the House  
> Warning: CRACK, gallows/dark humour  
> Summary: Watson's quick thinking makes for a happier ending.  
> Author's Note: One recipe for a corpse reviver is two parts cognac, 1 part apple brandy and sweet vermouth, neat.

I raced back, glass in hand. “Holmes, quick!”   
“Too late, my dear man, even for the most remedying of remedies known to medicine.”   
“No! It’s never too late. Not for cognac, brandy, _and_ sweet vermouth!”   
“Why didn’t you say so? Hurry, Doctor!”   
I poured the concoction down the lady’s gullet and she sprang like Lazarus.   
“Corpse reviver, indeed,” murmured Hopkins.

* * *

**Poetic Form:** Beeswing (x 2. First is for Small Hobbit)

 

A word, dear Holmes, while Hopkins dries and smokes and drinks his storm-cure shandy;

this time, do bear in mind his Christian name is _not_ Gerard, it’s Stanley.

Why Stanley, Watson? Far more handy, think of Hopkins, think of Manly.

 

Guilty snared by a pair of golden spectacles’ omission.

Guilty, held captive, walled-in by fate’s foul juxtaposition.

Mission doomed _sans_ near-position of like-minded optician.

 


	53. The Solitary Cyclist (60 + blitz)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: If ol' Artie won't think of the children, then I suppose I have to.  
> Canon Story: The Solitary Cyclists  
> Rating: G  
> Summary: Everybody get a happy ending. And a piano. And a bicycle.

“Hello, Doctor Watson!”   
“Oh, hello, Miss Smith!  Wait, it’s Mrs. Morton now, isn’t it? Congratulations!”   
“Yes, it is, thank you. Do remember Esme, Mister Carruthers’ daughter?”   
“Oh, yes, hello, my dear!”   
“Hello, Doctor Watson.”   
“Esme’s living with us now. We are in London doing a bit of shopping.”   
“We’re going to get a piano and a bicycle just for me!”

* * *

**Poetic form:** blitz

Title: Bicycle to Go

 

Riding roughshod

Riding a bicycle

Bicycle built for one beautiful intruder

Bicycle tire

Tired and sick

Tire, flat

Flat broke

Flat up (against it)

Upside-down

Upright young man

Man of the cloth

Man of the world

World-weary

World war

War of the roses

War to end all

All that glitters

All of you

_You_ will go down

You have heard of me, I see

See here

See to her

Her beauty

Her spatulated finger-ends

Ends of the earth

Ends well that all's well

Well-wishing

Well-deep

Deep down

Deep waters

Waters still

Waters under a bridge

Bridge over troubled waters

Bridge burnt

Burnt offerings

Burnt orange

Orange and apple

Orange blossom

Blossom where you're planted

Blossom in the spring

Spring the trap

Spring in your step

Stepping-stone

Step here

Here comes the bride

Here we go

Go to the glade of felony-love

Go and give it your all

All

Love


	54. Poem: Watson at Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birthday blitz for the wonderful [gardnerhill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill)

Study in Crimson & Vermillion

Study in Watsons

Watson & Holmes

Watson's Beez

Bee's sting for the Keeper's Apprentice

Bees holiday

Holiday abroad

Holiday in the Country

Country (Afghanistan) mouse, city (London) mouse

Country & western mud-wrestling Christmas

Christmas goose, turkey, jewel-stuffed

Christmas Victorian

Victorian gentlemen, typical

Victorian vampire

Vampire hunter (& contralto)

Vampire's blood

Blood-drinking detective’s mate

Bloody rain

Rainy days are Welcome to Bakerstown

Raining dogs & cats

Cats & Mice are Friends, Not Food

Cats & Dogs (Living Together)

Dog Johnny & Cat Shock

Dog-gone

Gone. It's the pits.

Gone. But not forgotten

Forgotten little, he has

Forgotten in French

French windows and wine

French art

Art in the blood

Art (& letter & telegram) of war

Warriors, wounded

Warrior & shaman

Shaman adrift

Shaman at sea

Sea-side convalescence & correspondence

Sea captain

Captain Watson & Corporal Wood

Captain Shear-Lock & Dr. Jack

Jack, One-Hand

Jack Daniels whiskey

Whiskey & women

Whiskey river

River Street Gang

River Thames, London's heart

Heart & mind, great, in verse & prose

Heart-locked treasure-trove

Treasure-trove

verse & prose


	55. Black Peter (60 + compound word poem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: Black Peter  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: In which Mister Holmes errs in storing his harpoon in the kitchen

“…and then the stain on the carpet,” said Mrs. Hudson with a sigh.  
“And Inspector Hopkins leaving without touching his breakfast,” mumbled Bessie around a mouthful of cold scrambled eggs.  
“Best for all that ‘Captain Basil’ and ship’s doctor go on holiday or…” Mrs. Hudson eyed the harpoon in the corner.  
Bessie laughed. “You said your whaling days were over!”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** Compound word poem

 **Title:** SS Sea Unicorn

Nails, sailcloth, rope, and wood wrestle  
to form a Unicorn vessel  
sea-going.  
With each voyage, she understands  
more of winds, waters, ports, and sands,  
waves, sea-green.  
Then it’s sailors, guns, shouts, and rum.  
Her nails are rusty; wood’s become  
sea-faring.  
By eighty-three, greed weighs her low,  
Tide ebbs, waves crest to see her so  
sea-sick.  
The sea washes evil aground;  
she waits until a Captain’s found  
sea-worthy.


	56. Charles Augustus Milverton (60 + alliterisen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: Charles Augustus Milverton  
> Rating: G  
> Summary: Some sleep well, some poorly, some forevermore.

"You've made me lose a good night's rest, my dear.”   
“Do you sleep, Mister Milverton?”   
“Most soundly. The servants often joke that it is impossible to wake me.”   
“I don’t sleep. Not since you threatened me, not since you made good on your threat, not since you ruined my happiness, but you shall rest now and so shall I, finally.”

* * *

**Poetic form:** Alliterisen

Rough, rumble, evening ramble,  
our sup’s preferred preamble,   
an amicable amble,  
or game, the get-lost gamble,  
down to docks’ briny bramble,  
uphill, legs-screaming scramble,  
back to Baker Street shamble.


	57. Poem: The Ballad of the Black Silk Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Ballad of the Black Silk Masks  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Length: 507 (20 stanzas + refrain, ballad metre)  
> Content Notes: Holmes/Watson, restraints, anal sex, POV Holmes.  
> Summary: Watson seeks to soothe Holmes upon return to Baker Street after CAM's murder.  
> Author's Note: For my LJ 1_million_words BINGO Square: delayed gratification. To answer the question why Watson has black silk laying about to make their masks.

Refrain:

How natural, my dear Watson, is

the turn you have for this.

Unmasked, laid bare, am I, unveiled

and ravaged by your kiss.

I.

Our silk-rimmed eyes agog, aghast

as villain’s done his fate

With secrets burned, we flee ‘cross Heath

Race ‘til hound’s hounds abate.

II.

Hot blood still pound-bounds in our veins;

taut hearts still beat as drums;

consigned to pace, confined and caged,

am I, ‘til morning comes.

III.

Then you, dear Watson, take my hand

and bid my worry cease

with wicked smile, you promise me

distraction, pleasure, peace.

IV.

Soon hands divest me of my garb

and bind me to the bed.

Exposed and posed, to please, be pleased

with legs and arms wide-spread.

V.

Our black cloth masks remain, and thus

each wet, warm brush of lips

is joined by moustache tickle, lick

of silk as head nods, dips.

VI.

You tease and nip. I struggle, strain

to catch your hungry mouth.

Your onslaught ruthless, laying siege,

as fingers travel south.

VII.

That nuzzling nose, those suckling lips,

the teeth that graze and scrape

all echo sordid whisperings

as tongue tempts-flirts ‘cross nape

VIII.

“You gorgeous, filthy, wanton beast

all mine to torture, stir,

to drive lust-mad until you plead,

you needy, greedy cur.”

IX.

Your hand curls ‘round my cock. I groan.

The night’s adventures fade.

All that exists is you and I,

lust’s sea through which we wade.

X.

So sweetly fondled, stroked, and teased

Quite soon I reach the edge

Then lo! You’re gone. I’m left bereft

on passion’s crumbling ledge.

XI.

“Who knows what ‘morrow has in store,

this may be our last night.

Your pleasure I’ll prolong, extend

until we greet dawn’s light.”

XII.

All protest falls on ears most deaf;

no pleas sway choice so cruel.

Once more, the world’s most clever sleuth’s

reduced to lust-crazed fool.

XIII.

Cool silk, hot breath, strong grip, sharp teeth,

almost too much to bear.

The marks of love’s embrace, restraint

by morn, I’ll surely wear.

XIV.

You bow to suckle hanging sacs

whilst prick slicked throbs and bobs;

it screams for one hard tug, release,

whilst leaking pearly globs.

XV.

Again, you step away from me

when most I’d have you near.

The anguished look upon your face

betrays your own need dear.

XVI.

You strip and turn. I gasp and burn

to watch your finger slick

prepare yourself to be impaled

on ready, willing prick.

XVII.

What bliss for cock to find a home

inside your stretched warm sheath.

Hips buck to fuck, _snap-crack_ , bonds break

I mount, you sigh beneath.

XVIII.

One thrust, I’m done. I quiver, shake

and spend lust’s white-hot seed

You moan and groan and writhe so grand.

For deeper, more, you plead.

XIX.

Still bound am I by sound and scent

and sight of lover prone

This sense-hound leaps to howl and rut

and claim you as mat-own.

XX.

No rest ‘til you are rag-wrung, rent,

until rider’s ridden,

And though we two still wear the masks

Twixt us, nothing’s hidden.


	58. The Three Students (60 + abecedarian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Three Students  
> Rating: Gen  
> Warning: Steampunk crack  
> Author's Note: _"Watson I have always done you an injustice. There are others.“_

Watson! When I said ‘there are others’…”  
“I interpreted your comment as prescience, not condescension.”   
“How benevolent. There on the lawn are three Watsons!”  
“Yes, as I could not aide you in your research, I took a stroll and ended up volunteering at College of Futuristic Sciences with something called the H.G. Wells Replication Machine and now…”  
“There are others.”

* * *

 

**Poetic form:** Abecedarian

 

**A Greek Abecedarian Play**

_Starring:_

**Alpha!Holmes,** who has a monograph on early English charters littered with grammatical and spelling errors

**Omega!Watson,** who has exceptional proofreading and editing skills

 

**Holmes:** Alpha, am I, with monograph superior

**Watson:** Beta, if used, might winnow chaff inferior

_[Holmes hands Watson the monograph; Watson scans it.]_

**Watson:** Gamma, or grammar is required and spelling, too

_[Watson dons his pince-nez and produces a red pen and goes to work on the monograph. He finishes and hands it to Holmes, who looks stricken at all the red on the pages.]_

**Holmes:** Delta, the change between page neat, page red is _you!_

Epsilon, a child, this work, with love-sweat-struggle wrought

Zeta, is now crisscrossed, with unsheathed pen-gash fraught!

_[Watson soothes.]_

**Watson:** Eta, my marks, like seventh star, are there to guide

Theta, your words from death upon the dashing tide

Iota, of pebble-sand-grit errors. Pray don’t curse,

Kappa, held in the cupped palm of the universe,

Lambda, your argument rests, strong like Spartan’s shield.

Mu, (sic) your lyrical command of academic field.

_[Holmes isn’t convinced.]_

**Holmes:** Nu, (isance) is revision when first thoughts are pristine!

_[Watson argues for his edits, then soothes more.]_

**Watson:** Xi, but strike these variables, reign supreme!

Omicron, they’ll gasp, from smaller, softer ‘ohs’ to ‘ahs.’

Pi, of beautiful irrational applause.

_[Holmes, realizing his vanity and the justice in what Watson recommends, crumples.]_

**Holmes:** Rho, dear man, forgive my dense and foolish pride.

Sigma, the sum of your advice shall here abide

Tau, the texts revived, rid of ancient, modern grime

Upsilon, at this Pythagorean point in time

Phi, my path is lit by gold ratio thine.

**Watson:** Chi, our paths are two, like souls, our worlds, too, twine

_[Holmes drops the monograph, walks to the centre of the stage.]_

**Holmes:** Psi, by Neptune’s prongs…

_[Watson throws down his pince-nez and red pen and meets him half-way. They clasp hands.]_

**Watson:** …we’ll sigh and sing our songs.

**Holmes** _[singing]_ **:** Omega, you’re the perfect beta mine!

**Watson** _[singing]_ **:** …Alpha mine!

THE END


	59. The Bruce-Partington Plans (60 + lies)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Yellow Fog: A Poem  
> Canon Story: The Bruce-Partington Plans  
> Rating: Gen

Yellow fog   
It spots and it stains   
Yellow fog   
It oozes and drains   
Yellow fog   
It stains and it spots   
Yellow fog   
It marks and it blots   
Yellow fog   
It spots and it stinks   
Like chamber pots   
and kitchen sinks   
Yellow fog   
It hides and it slides   
Yellow fog    
Such a crime, how the grime, leaves behind   
its dreary fingerprint!

* * *

**Poetic Form:** lies

 

My Watson thinks I’m cross-indexing  
crimes with culprits, pipes with ashes.  
In truth, I’m sketching how he’d look  
With mutton chops and curled moustaches.


	60. The Abbey Grange (60 + echo poem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Abbey Grange  
> Rating: Gen

“Was that him?!”  
  
“Who, Inspector?”   
  
“Oh, I’m a fool now, am I? Was the sailor I passed outside this address the murderer of Sir Eustace Bracknell? Better, don’t tell me. I’ll bring him to justice myself, but let me warn you, Mister Holmes, you are neither a court of law nor a god!”   
  
A bent coin landed on the rug.

* * *

 **Poetic Form:** Echo Verse

My Watson, hear this fervid verse quatrain…

Train?

…my heart cannot withstand much more the strain…

Train?

…our world’s too grim; it seeks to e’er constrain…

Train!

…to punish souls that it cannot restrain—

TRAIN!

 


	61. The Missing Three-Quarter (60 + list poem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Missing Three-Quarter  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: On a tea estate in Terai, a letter arrives.  
> Author's Note: Rasher is my OC name for the canon canine. Implied background Holmes/Trevor.

 “Rasher, it’s a letter from your old friend Holmes.”  
He scratched the bull terrier behind the ears as he read. Then he laughed aloud.   
Rasher whined.  
“Sorry ol’ sport, he just says, ‘Blame dearth of knowledge manifested in recent case on your disingenuous rugby lessons.’ At the time, I seem to remember him saying they were very instructive.”  
Rasher howled.

* * *

Poetic Form: List poem

Title: Watson-- _his depths_

Of gossip, lurid news, his knowledge’s vast,  
but query him of crimes of note? Blank stare.   
He’s a philosophy enthusiast   
espousing theories from his fireside chair.  
  
Of stars, he knows too much. Of politics,  
it’s worse. Of plants, he’s wise on pruning shears,  
but poisoner’s preferred herbs, leaves, and sticks?  
He lacks. On soils, as well, in deep arrears!  
  
Of chemistry, his knowledge’s thin but sound,  
yet, as with any doctor worth the name,  
his knowledge of body function, form’s profound.  
Of games of chance, sport, music, law, the same.  
  
In one field, though, he’s opposite of nil:  
detective-care, his matchless, depthless skill.


	62. The Devil's Foot (60 + stream of consciousness)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Mrs. Sterndale  
> Canon Story: The Devil's Foot  
> Rating: Gen  
> Content Note: Noir style  
> Summary: Someone else is pretty pleased about Holmes's version of justice.

“Johnny.”   
I blinked. Did the devil’s foot still linger in my veins?   
“My husband confessed?”   
“Sterndale?!”   
“I like _energetic_ men, or don’t you remember, Johnny?”   
“You’re hard to forget, Susanna.”   
“Mister Holmes let him go? Good. I liked Brenda. The brother?” She grimaced.   
“You’re looking well.”   
She winked and blew a smoke-ring. “Wait ‘til you see me in widow’s weeds.”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** stream of consciousness

The devil you know   
The devil you don’t  
The devil inside  
The devil in the details  
The devil himself  
The devil’s playthings  
The devil and the deep blue bay, that old death trap for sailing vessels  
The devil, speak of: _“It’s devilish, Mr. Holmes, devilish!”_  
The devil’s intrusions into the affairs of men   
The devil’s-foot root  
The root of the ancient Cornish language in Phoenician tin traders   
The root of all evil: tin


	63. The Sussex Vampire (60 + nonsense poem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Agony of the Leaves  
> Canon Story: The Sussex Vampire  
> Rating: Gen  
> Summary: Perhaps the hunt is not over.  
> Author's Note: _...Mr. Robert Ferguson of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane..._

“Well, it wasn’t a vampire after all, Holmes.”   
“Preposterous notion, Watson!”    
“Tea, gentlemen…”   
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” we replied.   
“…the tea arrived as a gift from brokers Ferguson & Muirhead,” she added.   
We sipped.  We grimaced.   
“Good Lord, Holmes, this tastes like…!”    
“Blood,” he said, frowning. “Perhaps we ought to pay a visit to Mincing Lane.”   
“I’ll bring the stakes!”

* * *

**Poetic Form:** nonsense poem [a parody of _The Shape of Me and Other Things_ by Dr. Seuss]

The shape of Watson

The shape of Holmes

The shape of befouled catacombs

A ship

A secret

A stare

A sight

of blood when vampires first do bite.

Just think about the shape of creams,

Devonshire,

clotted,

and devoted maids’ screams.

Just think about the shape of clues

and from-afar suitors singing the blues.

The shape of gals

just being pals.

The shape of bodies in canals.

And the shapes of spaniels

the shapes of guns

the shape of a blow dart when it stuns

And the shape of rugger

And his woes

And when he worries,

his Big Bob grows!

Suppose Holmes was shaped like this

or that

or shaped like snog

or a Sumatran rat!

Of all the shapes he might have been

Watson says, ‘Oh, dear!’ for the shape he’s in!

 


	64. The Red Circle (60 + hay(na)ku)

“Was that Leverton?” I asked upon reaching the top of the stairs.

“Yes, he lent me an ear.”

“But the case is closed.”

“Indeed. He’s returning to New York tomorrow with most of Gorgiano’s body.”

I stared, then glanced in the direction of the lumber room.

“Oh, Holmes. Not one more specimen of the tragic and grotesque for your collection!”

* * *

Poetic Form: hay(na)ku (x2)

Circle  
Red unbroken  
By and by

\---

Index  
of Watson's  
whispered nothings sweet.  
  
Do not disturb!  
Almost forgot  
honeybun


	65. Thor Bridge (60 + rispetto)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: Thor Bridge  
> Rating: Gen

‘The schoolroom of sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught.’

What lessons Holmes had learned, in what schoolrooms? I wondered.

But then remembering Gibson’s statement, that most men have a little private reserve of their own in some corner of their souls where they don’t welcome intruders, I let the matter rest, and we journeyed back to London in silence.

* * *

Poetic Form: Rispetto

 

Maria Pinto of Manaus,

unlike Mrs. J. Neil Gibson,

would not be cuckold in her house

departed like a doll of Ibsen

 

Her prime had passed, or so they say

but not her courage, dignity.

But, tell me, will you, who are _they_

to damn a wronged Antigone?

 


	66. Old Shoscombe Place (60 + shadorma)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: Shoscombe Old Place  
> Rating: Gen

Thank you for being my ‘Handy Guide to the Turf,’ Watson.”  
“You’re welcome, but you do yourself a disservice, Holmes. You could write your own.”  
Mrs. Hudson snatched Holmes’s cigarette, which was burning a hole in the curtain.  
“Be gone, you two,” she ordered, “until after the Landladys’ Book Club and Tea.”  
“The Handy Guide to Being Turfed!” I cried.

* * *

Poetic Form: shadorma

 

Title: St. Pancras

Saint Pancras

his ashes and dust

carried thus

laid to rest

from Augustine’s story-chest

at great Pope’s behest

Saint Pancras

death most treasonous

evil’s pus

ends searches

between rail and old churches,

besmirches.

Saint Pancras

bears holy witness

to squareness

given import

the microscope lens does sort

truth from sport

 

Title: Caballo

El triste

príncipe corre

como el

viento

para olvidarse de

su reina


	67. The Retired Colourman (60 + quatern)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Retired Colourman  
> Rating: Gen

The retired colourman   
thought   
missus w’another man   
thought   
he’d go and bluff a man   
but    
Mister   
Holmes’d be a duller man   
than   
every cryin’-mother’s man   
if    
he    
wasn’t such a muller man   
and    
through-a-   
winner-bouncin’ rubber man!   
And   
Mister   
Holmes’d   
be   
a sail-   
without-a-rudder man   
without    
his unlike-   
any-other man,   
his   
band-of-brother man,   
Doctor   
Watson.   
So, it’s bye-bye    
Mister Colourman!

* * *

**Poetic Form:** quatern

 

“Cut out the poetry, Watson,”

say I. “Your metaphors distract.

The wall was high and brick, intact.

Proceed, with naught but cold, plain fact.”

 

“So elegant the ostrich plume—“

“Cut out the poetry, Watson!

The lady’s hatpin, I presume,

is innocent, so’s her perfume.”

 

“The sunset’s colours matter not,

be they lemon curd or apricot!

Cut out the poetry, Watson!

Does light suffice to make the shot?”

 

“Close doors, free words, let tongues have sway,

compare me to a summer’s day,

for here, my love, I’ll never say,

‘Cut out the poetry, Watson.’

 


	68. Fic: Peace & Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Peace & Quiet  
> Rating: PG/Teen  
> Length: 221b  
> Content Notes: Hopkins/Holmes; Lestrade/Watson; part of the Broom Cupboard 'verse by thesmallhobbit  
> Summary: Mrs. Hudson has a quiet Mother's Day.  
> Author's Note: for LJ Holmes_Minor monthly prompt: flowers.  
> Prompt by thesmallhobbit: Sherlock Holmes (ACD): It's gone very quiet in the broom cupboard lately. Have the Holmes/Hopkins and Watson/Lestrade partnerships moved elsewhere, or has Mrs Hudson finally bought the unpickable lock?

“It’s quiet,” said Mrs. Turner.   
  
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hudson with a smile. “It’s what every mother truly wants from her household, isn’t it?”   
  
“But how did you manage it?”   
  
“Come.”  
  
\---   
  
“You painted the inside of the cupboard with pansies, primroses, lilies, and tulips! Lovely, but how did this contribute to your domestic tranquility?”   
  
“Do you know Madame Miranda?”   
  
“The medium?”   
  
“Yes, she was able to contact the other side for me and obtain most of the answers I needed. The last I got by my own detective work.” She sighed. “It won’t last, but it’ll give me a day’s respite.”    
  
“Martha, you’re being awfully cryptic.”   
  
**_ Earlier… _ **   
  
“Uh, oh.”   
  
“John, what is it?”   
  
“Those flowers. The primroses.”   
  
“Yes?”   
  
“Well, they were my mother’s favourite. Makes me think of her and what she might think of me shoved in a broom cupboard with one of Scotland Yard’s finest.”   
  
“ _One_ of the finest? But, oh, wait, Mummy always liked pansies, just like those. Keep your roses, she’d say, give a pocket of pansies and I’ll be as something as something.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Well, it was a long time ago, but I miss her still.”   
  
“Hmm. Maybe we could postpone, not that—”   
  
“Yes, yes. Another time.”   
  
**_ And… _ **   
  
“ _But Holmes, I kiss my mother with this mouth!_ ”   
  
“Oh, just wait ‘til I get a paint brush.”


	69. The Priory School (60 + barzelleta)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Priory School  
> Rating: G  
> Summary: Did Holmes forget how the story began? Sheesh!

“In that case—“  
  
I interrupted.   
  
“One final matter, your Grace, you will use your influence and your resources, if required, to remove the tarnish these machinations have cast upon the reputation of Doctor Huxtable and his school.”   
  
The Duke nodded. “Very well.”   
  
I looked at Holmes.   
  
He may have forgotten his client, but I do not forget a patient.

* * *

 **Poetic Form:** Barzelleta

Poor Doctor T. Huxtable III

nerve-worn, insensible of state,

did swagger, slip, then fall prostrate

upon the rug of 221B.

 

His card, his pate bowed with the weight

of titles and distinctions grand

and scandal foul, hand cruel of Fate.

the master could no longer stand

when frayed, not staid, his puppet’s band.

Alarmed, but not surprised were we

 

at Doctor T. Huxtable III,

nerve-worn, insensible of state.

 

Was not he first to oscillate

and crumble. Suppin on The Strand

and drinking, late, with Boswell mate,

did lead to matters well in hand.

And one of us became unmanned.

And pitched and tumbled just as T.

 

Upon the rug of 221B

did swagger, slip, then fall prostrate

 

 

 


	70. Wisteria Lodge (60 + décima)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: Wisteria Lodge  
> Rating: Gen  
> Author's Note: Based on [this interpretation](http://www.sherlockpeoria.net/Who_is_Sherlock/ChronCornerHOUNVALLLast.html#WIST%22) of canon chronology.

“Sorry I’m late. How’s he tonight?”   
“The same. Still muttering about tigers and homes, but one mystery is solved. A Mrs. Hudson stopped by. His  former landlady. She said he lost his best friend and his wife last year.”   
“No wonder he worked himself sick!”   
“If this fever doesn’t break soon—“   
“Oh, don’t talk like that. He’ll pull through.”

* * *

Poetic Form: Décima

Oh, Mister John Scott Eccles, tell  
how one so without guile survives?  
A perfect upright fool who strives  
to rush where angels dare not dwell.  
How near were you, yet spared the hell!  
A friendship far too fast and close,  
a visit strange, a stranger host.  
Disturbed in sleep, disturbed awake  
a house deserted, horror state.  
Of ‘sociable turn,’ sir, do not boast!


	71. Lady Francis Carfax: (60 + débat)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Disappearance of Lady Francis Carfax  
> Rating: Gen

Marie Devine might be a devoted creature, but little Rosie Spender—named for her grandmother—didn’t have the luxury of devotion. She took care of herself, even if it meant making deals with devils like Holy Peters. Well, she’d got her inheritance and fifty pounds to boot. Now time for Marie, like Rosie, to disappear. Sea voyage? Yes. Sounded grand.

* * *

 

Poetic form: Débat

**Holmes:**  
  
But why eschew the homemade bath,  
invigorating, cheap, beneath stairs?  
Explain, pray tell, the choice to swap  
an English wash for Turkish wares.  
  
 **Watson:**  
  
The Turkish bath relaxes, calms.  
an oasis from worldly cares,  
like reenactments of the fates   
of sunken barques that flood the stairs!  
  
What’s more I feel the years do wear  
on joints and mind fatigued with frets  
I seek to rid my system of  
experiments (singed curtain debts)!  
  
 **Holmes:**  
  
If change is what your heart desires  
I’ve just the thing, my Watson dear.  
How ‘bout a Continental trip,  
but get your boots well-laced right here?


	72. The Three Garridebs (60 + trine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Three Garridebs  
> Rating: G  
> Summary: What if it wasn't Holmes's revolver that cracked the 'killer' but maybe something a bit more domestic but just as brutal.

“Thank goodness I forgot my key! Put your gun away, sir. Mop handle was good enough for the General, it’s good enough for me. That, by the way, was for ripping the carpet! And _this_ is for making that poor gentleman bloody my newly-waxed floor! D’you know how much dusting I do? Bet you don’t because your poor mother never…”

* * *

 **Poetic Form:** trine

The first’s a wolf in sheep’s name : a spider spins a web.  
Half-Yank, half-Brit, all snake : Mister John Garrideb.  
The second’s a mere ruse : of ink and air, he’s made.  
Mister H. Garrideb: a lure for tup ne’er-strayed.  
The third’s the mark, the ram : the cog in snake-wolf’s wheel.  
Poor Nathan Garrideb : the only one that’s real!  
The wolf returns to dark : fortune’s land, fortune’s ebb.  
Who wasn’t still isn’t : he rests where he was laid.  
Poor ram becomes shorn lamb : sans curios and keel.

* * *

Hans Sloane (song parody)

I am the very model of a modern Hans Sloane curator.  
My curios do show that I am far from any amateur.  
I’ve rocks from lochs of note and every era geological,  
all classified and sorted in an order that’s most logical  
Apart from stones, I’ve bones! So many fossils anatomical!  
Of skulls, there’s Heidelberg, of course, Cro-Magnon, and Neanderthal.  
For instruments of flint, this cabinet. I’ve got a lot of them.  
And coins from ancient mints? That case, right there. It’s chocked full to the brim.  
See, my displays’d fetch praise from premier lepidopterologists.  
Debris? Dear me! These piles aspire to those of archeologists!  
My museum’s small but grand. No dilettante, no, sir, connoisseur.  
I am the very model of a modern Hans Sloane curator.

 


	73. The Illustrious Client (60 + rima dissolutas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Illustrious Client  
> Rating: Gen

“Built by a South African gold king?” I mused.    
I gave the turrets one last glance, then  followed the butler inside, thinking to myself that an imposing, nightmare of a house obtained as a result of the ruthless extraction of something precious by a unwanted, unwelcome, and violent outside party might hold great appeal for a villain like Baron Gruner.

* * *

Poetic form: Rima dissolute (with envoi)

A lovely shade  
of purple deep,  
of lavender  
of aubergine  
of lilac fair.  
  
A post well-paid,  
odd rules to keep,  
circs engender  
fear unforeseen.  
Dear Vi, beware!  
  
A sleuth to aide,  
rage-tears to weep  
at truth tender  
when fades smoke, screen.  
How raw, this air!  
  
Violets were  
are, e’er have been  
in need of care.


	74. The Mazarin Stone (60 + enuig)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Mazarin Stone  
> Rating: G  
> Author's Note: Among its many irregularities, this story presents some difficulty for those trying to recreate the floorplan of 221b. Most notably, the location of Holmes's bedroom.

“I don’t understand, Holmes.”   
“Watson, you’re being exceedingly tiresome. From the beginning, Count Sylvius—“  
“No, _this_! All the curtains! And your bedroom has moved! And the two street-facing windows have become one large bow window. Really, it’s all quite mad.”  
“Watson, answer me this.”  
“What?!”  
“Why is a raven like a writing desk? Oh, it’s six. Time for tea!”

* * *

‘Tis trying to decide

where to commence, where to begin

the list of grievous flaws

of Stone of Mazarin

_Not all is fractured, warped_

_Though much will verily displease_

_The forest is abysmal;_

_consider, though, the trees._

 

The person third is odd,

It roams, too distant and aloof,

abandons sleuth and doctor, rests

with villains, _sans_ reproof.

 

_But bits of scene so dear!_

_The coal is scuttled, charts upon the wall_

_The violin, the pipes,_

_charred bench of acid-pall._

 

Who is this Billy-page,

who by our hero bides?

Our sleuth is carved to fit

only a Watson by his sides!

Who is this satellite,

orbiting our Saturn,

who doesn’t know the tales of old

but knows his sleeping pattern?

Who is this timeless lad,

without whom Holmes can’t do,

when murder is announced,

who is he, who, who, who?

And why is Watson out,

Not is, but was, has been?

As if he’s worth much less

than bubbly gasogene!

And why’s our Boswell sent

upon an errand low

to pass a note, and why, in heavens,

does he agree to go?!

 

_Yet jewels glitter in the slag;_

_choice veins await the mines._

_The ore may lack in light,_

_but shine these precious lines:_

_The rest of me is a mere appendix._

_This man has come for his own purpose, but he may stay for mine._

_Consider the furniture!_

Clever words, but commonplace

the uninspired nature of each face:

a villain dark, a sidekick slow

a Lord who needs a thrashing.

A cursed gem, a waxhead Holmes,

old props get a rehashing

from better tales of yore,

reveal their clumsy mashing.

 

Old sleight of hand meets modern ruse

And our rogues are oddly docile.

They leave in ‘cuffs, give Holmes

their best, without so much a jostle.

 

_But Holmes’s best trick of all?_

_Old lady with baggy parasol!_

_Concludes the tale as many do_

_with dinner ordered just for two._

 

Just for two?

But who? But who?

A finale most uncertain.

Minds wander and they ponder

the falling Mazarin curtain.

 

 


	75. The Veiled Lodger (60 + tricube)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Veiled Lodger  
> Rating: Gen

“How can I thank you?”   
“Remember my words. Share them with one as you were.”   
“The English translation? ‘Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.’”   
“You mayn’t see your friend again, Sigerson. He mayn’t forgive your deception. Nevertheless, you are strong, irreplaceable. Now,” he grinned, “shall we, as the Americans say, paint the Llhasa town red?”

* * *

Poetic form: Tricube

Prussian blue  
bitter brew  
almond sigh  
  
Red bottle  
of thought ill  
will, not Thy  
  
Brown cork plug  
remains snug  
by the by


	76. The Three Gables (60 + descort)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Three Gables  
> Rating: Teen (i.e., someones are in the broom cupboard, but you can’t tell exactly what’s going on)  
> Warning: Holmes/Douglas Maberley  
> Author’s Note: Someone on the Sherlock Kink Meme has actually asked for Holmes/Maberley. Here’s my 60-word attempt.

He rolled onto his back, reached for a cigarette. “How ‘bout an evening ramble?”    
“It’s almost morning. Another dance in Trafalgar’s Square?”   
He laughs. “We’ll wear masks. No one will know us.”   
“All of London knows you, Douglas.”   
“All of London _will_ know you, Sherlock. One day.”   
“You’re magnificent.”   
“You, too. My last night in London. Let’s make more memories.”

* * *

Poetic Form: descort

Crown Derby tea-set  
(Old Imari pattern)  
perfect for   
a  
March Hare’s party.  
Rare, perhaps, but the real mystery is why one’d want to nibble scones from a bone china playing card in which there was a grave possibility of losing sight of them in the foliage and being distracted from one’s afternoon Darjeeling by the riddle of which suit is trumps on the side of one’s cup.  
No, thank you, Mrs. Maberley,  
I’ll take   
244  
pages of your son’s  
revenge porn  
and be on my way. For I’m late, you see, for…  
…what I can’t say! 


	77. The Blanched Soldier (60 + clogyrnach)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Blanched Soldier  
> Rating: Gen  
> Author’s Note: An idea for an AU to fulfill my ‘Suspense’ Bingo square.

“… _deserted me for a wife_ …”   
Anything to silence that editor, damn fool, clamouring for what Watson’d promised.   
But my scribbling’s a welcome distraction from the ticking clock: on Saturday the person I know as John Watson, but whom the press, police give another name, swings from a hangman’s noose for the crime of believing a wife’s, not his, flattery.    
Unless…

* * *

Poetic Form: clogyrnach

The leper, most outcast of old  
common role of stories oft-told   
Faith, science reveal  
many ways to heal  
tale’s appeal  
love ne'er cold

 

Ejaculations of wonder,  
cunning questions rend asunder  
elevate my art   
but when we’re apart,  
sense _sans_ heart  
falls under 

 

Dancing tulip-ed feet come alive,  
start to prance, oh, long may they thrive!  
pairs of wooden shoes  
go Dutch, twos by twos,  
at the news,  
clog archive!

 


	78. Fic: Poetic License

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Poetic License  
> Rating: Gen  
> Length: 340  
> Summary: Holmes discovers Watson’s poetry note-book  
> Author’s Note: An alphabet ficlet (each sentence starts with a subsequent letter of the alphabet beginning with the letter ‘F’) written for the LJ fffc com Little Special challenge (s.29). A tribute to the LJ Sherlock60 poetry page and a call-back to my first 60 written for this round.

“Fetch me my notebook, Watson.”

“Get it yourself,” I retorted.

Holmes stretched, then winced, pain no doubt borne of being at his desk all morning, hunched over a palimpsest.

I had been thoroughly engrossed in one of Clark Russell’s marvelous sea stories, and as Holmes’s study of the ancient text had been a silent one, I startled, then chafed at being rudely catapulted from my fictional reverie.

“January’s been unseasonably cold,” I muttered as I contemplated abandoning my cocoon of blankets to stoke the fire and watched Holmes root, in a most porcine manner, through the piles of papers and books in the room.

“Kindly confine your search to your own debris,” I said testily when he began burrowing beneath my armchair.

“Let me see what this is,” he said, rising.

“Mine!” I cried, launching an unfruitful attempt to snatch the note-book from his hand.

“Not quick enough, Watson. Oh, my! Poetry!” he exclaimed as he flipped through the pages. “Quatern for “The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter”! Rispetto for “The Adventure of the Reigate Squire”! Sonnet, Italian for “A Scandal in Bohemia”! Tell me, Watson, have you written a poem for every case?”

Unable to speak, weighed by shame and rage, I simply nodded.

“Verily, I shall never get your limits, my dear man. Well done! Xenolith? Your own invention, I suppose, it appears to be a demanding, modern form and a poet’s license is the most permissive of kind, is it not? Zeugmas to anaphoras, no literary device has escaped your pen; no metre or rhyme scheme, either. Astonishing work, in all truth, extraordinary, and,” he handed the notebook back to me with a sheepish grin, “apologies for the invasion of your privacy, and we shall never speak of it again, but…”

“But?” I echoed, having regained my composure and my voice.

“Could you see your way to letting me read the next poem? Dare I write one myself?”

“Excellent idea,” I said, picturing a cosy verse guild of two.

“First, however, you must fetch me my note-book.”


	79. The Creeping Man (60 + xenolith)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Vanity, thy name is everybody.  
> Canon Story: The Creeping Man  
> Rating: Gen

So _that’s_ what happened, thought Alice, as she laid the copy of _The Strand_ beside her. Well, it could hardly matter now, but poor Pressie! Men were such vain creatures.    
  
“Will that be all, m’lady?”   
  
“Yes,” said Alice, just as she caught her own reflection in the well-polished teapot, “but if you would, dim the lights before the guests arrive.”

* * *

Poetic Form: Xenolith

Of Canine Subtleties in Crime: A Study Brief

As teeth wear ‘round an old pipe’s stem,

a dog reflects a master’s mien and leitmotif;

their notches tell of owner’s whim.

When bid, accomplice-dogs will stir or bay to grief

a loyalty to be compared

to shag tobacco never shared.

A dog will bite the hand that feeds in disbelief

as violins snap chords and strands

‘neath fingers ill, in other’s hands

A dog may serve as lamb, first straw in bloody sheaf,

and warn of threat day overlooks

A dog will point the way, the path, the pattern chief

like notes of note in index books.

Companion true’s a wont that’s mirror, aid, relief.


	80. The Lion's Mane (60 + cherita)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: The Lion’s Mane  
> Rating: Gen

A creature swept off-course by gale.  
A sudden end to life once hale.   
A cruel parry for a pup’s thrust.   
A pup expired in master’s dust.                                                                                                                                                    
A love kept hid for father’s scorn.   
A clue cut short like message torn.   
A final breath ignominious.   
A third attack exsanguineous.      
Provoking most consternation?   
Stackhurst, ‘without invitation,’   
And Watson, then,   
‘beyond the ken.’

* * *

Poetic Form: cherita (x 2)

1.

Dashed in a pool

 

Spied in a shield

Beheaded

 

Turn men to jelly

Turn men to stone

Medusa, sleeping

 

2.

King of Sea Beasts

 

Streaks of silver in a

golden crown

 

But beware! Tread the lion's mane

and you shall surely hear

its roar


	81. Ficlet: Meta letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to the LJ Holmes Minor comm activity 'Letters of Apology'

Dear readers of _The Strand_ :

We apologise for your confusion, and we understand, we do. Even amongst ourselves, we have difficulty remembering which one of us rode a bicycle and which one of us cut her hair. And a music teacher accepting a suspiciously high wage under unusual circumstances in a remote setting _is_ very much like a governess accepting a suspiciously high wage under unusual circumstances in a remote setting. And we’re all very stubborn. One almost married a monster. One did marry a monster (though it wasn’t proper). And one, well, schoolmistressing has its monstrous aspects, doesn’t it? Really, some days we think it’d be easier dousing ourselves in sugar and throwing ourselves atop the nearest cake than make sense of it all. But if you feel your head spinning, we advise that you do what we do in such moments:

Ask James.

Yours,

the Violets

 


	82. His Last Bow (60 + puente)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon Story: His Last Bow  
> Rating: Gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last story of Round 5. Thank you to anyone and everyone who has enjoyed my offerings.

“Will you do the honours, Watson?”   
“Gladly. On behalf of your country, the sacrifice is appreciated, but let’s make a dreadful memory of it.”   
I took the proffered razor and set about the task in silence. Finally, he asked,   
“So, my blithe boy, won’t you come down and meet my bees?”   
I grinned. “Of course. I thought you’d never ask.” 

* * *

Poetic Form: Puente

 

last wipe of furrowed brow

quill rests unstirred in stand

nothing left for it now

but to bend quite low and

~ take a bow ~

from top of gift-box grand

unwrap and gasp an ‘oh!’

sixty pearls in the strand

sixty seeds yet to sow

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
